Sherlock: Binary Code
by SeverEstHolmes
Summary: A scandal of missing children and murder in a city office, lined? The evidence of the numbers seems to point so. The code must be cracked before the true understanding of the recent events are understood – and Sherlock Holmes is man capable of it.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John H. Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are the intellectual copyright of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and I hold no claim upon them.**

**A/N: This story, although set in the modern 21st Century, is highly influenced by the structure of the original stories about Sherlock Holmes.**  
><strong>I'm highly enjoying writing this- and I hope anyone who reads it will highly enjoy it too!<strong>  
><strong>Rated T, but this may move up to M as events unfold later on. Enjoy! :)<strong>

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><p>Doctor John Watson flinched as the flat door to 221B Baker Street slammed harshly shut. For a moment he sat completely still, gazing over at his companion – Sherlock Holmes, who had his long thin legs drawn up towards him so his knees were close to his chest as he sat on the armchair that he preferred while consulting. His shoulders were hunched up and his slender fingers were tapping in a swift rhythm upon the top of his knees.<p>

"What is it John?" He snapped waspishly, not even troubling to look at John as he spoke.

"That's the fourth case you've turned down this week, Sherlock! I thought you were bored-"

"I _am_ bored!" Sherlock exclaimed loudly, gesturing his hands up to the ceiling. "Everything about me is _bored!_ That, however, does not mean I am willing to accept mundane cases!" He stood up as he spoke, placing particular stress upon the word mundane, and began pacing back and forth across the room.

"So missing people are mundane now, are they?" John questioned in an exasperated way.

"Not all missing people, just that missing person." He answered curtly; not ceasing his pacing back and forth, the way he always did while agitated. "Mrs. Brochard knows exactly where her husband is and does not want to acknowledge it, which means Mr. Brochard is not a missing person at all."

"Why would she come to you if she knew where her husband is?" John shot back, knowing that Sherlock could easily piece together tiny observations and formulate them into the larger overall picture which was seen by him, but very rarely by others; those others included John himself.

"How am I to fathom the way people's silly little minds work?" He snarled almost at once. "Tell me, what did you observe about Mrs. Brochard?"

"Well…" John started, knowing he was now venturing into Sherlock's own territory; Sherlock had stopped his pacing and was bouncing slightly upon the balls of his feet. "She is a business woman in the city, she spends a lot of her time working on a computer, she goes to the gym in her free time while not working, and she was rebellious while she was young, probably a punk, going by her age…"

"And tell me exactly how you came to those conclusions?" Sherlock inquired, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.

"The way she was dressed; she had a line where the edge of her wrist presses into the desk while she types; her bag was not the normal size of a work bag, it looked like there was a pair of trainers packed into the bottom." John explained, going through point by point; feeling more and more annoyed at the look of maddening superiority that was presenting itself on Sherlock's face which usually indicated that everything he was saying was incorrect.

"In essence you are correct John, but you've merely glazed over the surface!" Sherlock commented, a slight tone of enjoyment in his voice now. "You see, but you do not _observe!_" He began pacing back and fro again like an imprisoned man desperate for freedom. "She is indeed a business woman who works in the city, in Harkens & Farris where she is an editor and spends a lot of her time typing. You were also correct about her spending time at the gym while not at work; in fact, she was there this morning, it is on her way to work – that is obvious from her hair. As to her being rebellious in her youth; she had two small scars, one on the left side of her nose and one at the very edge of her right eyebrow – she probably had them pierced during her adolescence and has allowed them to heal as to present a more professional working appearance. Her hair, also, looks as though it's dyed professionally, but it looked dry, damaged – probably from her dying it frequently herself when she was younger. She met her husband at her work, they married while she was still very young, very quickly after meeting one another. They regularly spend time in America, in their partner offices in San Francisco, California. Mr. Brochard has intimated several times that he would prefer for them both to emigrate and take permanent positions over in San Francisco; but Mrs. Brochard has repeatedly refused this, probably because of her elderly mother who is now in the late stages of dementia; she doesn't want to leave her mother alone, even though her mother no longer remembers anything about her daughter. Mrs. Brochard knows exactly where her husband is, because she has tried to track him down herself… she was not correct in where she was looking, her husband has gone to America without her – he has taken up a position in the offices in San Francisco." Sherlock spoke very fast, pulling deductions from out of the air which John could not understand from whence they came. A thrill seemed to rush through Sherlock as he spoke – like some great burst of adrenaline and energy was igniting from the nerve endings in his brain and coursing all the way through his tall body.

"Right… wow…." John breathed quietly, inwardly marvelling. "Explain…?"

"You already observed that she was a business woman by the way she was dressed; her laptop case was not fully zipped shut, she probably closed it quickly as she reached the underground station to come here. Inside the unzipped compartment there was headed notepaper, Harkens & Farris, the firm name, with an address and her name as editor underneath. She went to the gym early this morning, before work, and showered there – being a professional woman she takes pride in her outward appearance, but her hair was drawn back into a loose ponytail; the gym doesn't provide the means to style your hair – a hair dryer at the very most, so her hair wouldn't be as styled as if she had done it at home. Also, she had a muffin wrapper sticking out of her coat pocket; she'd been to the gym today so she could afford to treat herself. She is still a young woman, very early thirties at the most, but her wedding ring is worn, roughly ten years old, which would make her around twenty when she got married. She wasn't particularly well spoke, she employed both incorrect verb tenses and grammar in the short tale that she graced us with, not exactly the first candidate for the job of an editor – so she was selected for her job through other means; she married the boss, and there is a considerable age gap between them, he possibly may have been married previously. The business trips to San Francisco are obvious, I would have thought, her bag had an insignia of the Golden Gate Bridge, she was in America when her last bag broke. IT couldn't have been a leisure trip because she wouldn't have brought back a work related bag. The handles of the bag were slightly worn and had residue of those airline stickers that stat where a person is travelling from and to; she has made many similar trips and stuck the stickers in the same place each time. AS of her elderly mother, she was wearing a locket around her neck; it was old, slightly tarnished – not the kind of item she would choose to wear – it is of sentimental value, a family heirloom. She was fingering it as she spoke of work, there were clouded finger marks upon the metal which looks like she has been touching it a lot recently – she likes her work, but she has strong family ties. A family heirloom that she has been given already, probably by a mother who is still alive. Why would she have been given it while its old owner is still alive, and why would she be playing with it more recently? Her mother knew that at the time of her death, her mental capacity would not be complete – she may not be able to pass it on the way she would wish at the end, hence dementia. Her playing with it shows that she is worried about her mother; she doesn't want to leave her. The only reasons he came to us this evening is because she has spent today on the phone to as many members of her husbands' family and friends that live in the UK; the hair above her right ear was ruffled, the way that holding a telephone to it creates. She would try all of the family, and friends, within the UK first, because she doesn't want to admit that her husband has gone to San Francisco and taken up a post in the offices there, just as he had intimated that he would like to. She knows that he has done so, and cannot bear to think that he has gone and left her behind; indeed, it's likely that he has met a new woman over there, which explains why he has said nothing to her of going to America and, to her, has vanished completely." Sherlock accounted for each one of the points with a well observed deduction; once he had finished speaking he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and began bouncing upon the balls of his feet once more. John reeled for a few moments in silence, taking in all the information that Sherlock had presented – all of the tiniest detail and highest observation, and all at top speed.

"And why, tell me, could you not just tell her those things, rather than turn her away still in ignorance?" John asked eventually, Sherlock snorted loudly.

"She knows exactly where he is, she is in denial. I am a _consulting _detective, not a private detective… I do not spend my time tracking people down when their seeker knows where they are, but does not want to face the obvious." He answered slightly contemptuously. John didn't reply to this, Sherlock's need for stimulation was obvious – but his refusal to take any case that was not completely enthralling could be infuriating at times. "Why is there nothing exciting happening John?" He ejaculated finally. "There must be _something _interesting going on somewhere!" His brows were furrowed into a scowl on his pale face, a look that John had become very accustomed to when cases were running thin to the ground.

"Is there nothing on the blog?" John put forward the suggestion, but in an instant it was shot down in flames.

"Nothing more exciting than the case Mrs. Brochard presented to us." He snapped; picking up John's laptop which was lying on the table closest to him and tapping harshly upon one of the keys, the laptop had clearly sprung to life because less than a second later he put on an irritating whiny voice as he read out a message which must have been sent to the blog.

"'Dear_ Mr. Holmes, I think my wife is having an affair. She's been spending a lot of time at the office and last week she went away on a business trip, but turned her phone off for the entire time.' _Boring!" He closed the screen of the laptop and placed it back down on the table. "Consulting detective John, _consulting!_ Not, I'll track down missing people or find out whether a spouse is having an affair when it is clearly straightforward! I don't spend my time pointing out the obvious!" He cried in exasperation.

"Funny, that's exactly what I thought you spent your time doing…" John muttered quietly, but Sherlock had heard him – he made an impatient noise and threw himself onto the sofa. He lay, knees drawn up close to his chest and his back to John for a long time.

During that period John picked up his newspaper – which he had discarded onto the coffee table next to the arm chair he was seated in when Mrs. Brochard had first made her appearance – and began scanning through it, identifying any articles that may be of interest to his friend. There were, however, none that would give any satisfaction to Sherlock; every article, whether it be about a Conservative MP being embroiled in a monetary scandal, a famous author downgrading her status from billionaire to millionaire because of the amount of money she had donated to charity, or even the article saying that the State was inquiring into the disappearance of several young people within the care system, all would be considered simple, mundane, or _boring _to Sherlock.

"Aren't you working on any experiments?" John asked, Sherlock's heavy sighing had become so frequent that it seemed to punctuate the space at minute intervals. "I noticed that you've got a severed arm in the fridge?" John pointed out tentatively.

"Yes, I'm waiting for Molly to get back to me about that… we haven't quite identified whose it is…" Sherlock's voice was muffled as he faced in towards the sofa.

"You have a severed arm, and you don't know whose arm it is?" John questioned, slightly disbelievingly.

"Nope. All I know is that it was taken to St. Bartholomew's' immediately after being severed from its owner. Molly then contacted me and told me that something that I had been waiting for had turned up-"

"You've been waiting for a severed arm?" John cut across Sherlock.

"Severed arm, leg… any limb would have sufficed, it wouldn't have made much difference." He replied nonchalantly. "I just want to measure the contraction of the muscle fascicles in the first 72 hours after they have been separated from their owner."

"You wanted… Jesus! So you're telling me that severed arm in the fridge has been cut off in the last day, and you haven't even attempted to find out who it belongs to?" John stammered eventually.

"Belonged to John." He corrected, "Well clearly they haven't missed it much… it was cut off within the past 22 hours and we've not been contacted at all about any missing arms…" Sherlock answered lazily, "You would have expected that if it meant anything to him, he would have picked it up instantly."

"If it had meant anything?" John repeated under his breath, closing his eyes and rubbing one hand across his forehead. Sherlock remained silent, not moving from his position on the sofa while John fathomed the strange peculiarities of his friend.

"It's not as though he could have got it re-attached anyway!" Sherlock eventually broke the silence between us, "Take a look at it, you're more of a medical man than I… How do you reckon it was severed from its owner?"

"I gather that you're going to tell me whether I look or not…" John didn't move; while Sherlock was correct in his statement about John being a more informed, better qualified medical man, his abilities to observe and reason were greatly less informed than of his friend. As Sherlock grew increasingly bored his tendency to display those highly attuned senses even just to antagonise John also increased. Boredom drives most people to seek distraction, and Sherlock's distraction lay in giving opportunities for John to analyse, and then rip everything that John had observed to shreds and produce forth the real reasons, which, after they had been pointed out, often seemed quite obvious!

"It is unusual. In the majority of the instances when a severed limb is found and taken to a hospital like Barts, it's the result of a car crash or another trivial incident." Sherlock started, John didn't pick him up about using the word "trivial" in relation to a car accident. "And the limb has not been clearly truncated, there are ragged edges to the muscle tissue and bone… but in this case the arm has been cleanly sliced off, just before the joint of the elbow. When I first collected it from Molly I was sure that she had made a mistake and given me an arm from someone in the morgue; but no, it was the right one – found only an hour previous to my collection, outside a disused warehouse. It was still oozing blood, that is how we know how fresh it is." Sherlock was speaking with far too much relish in his voice than would have been accepted in public situations, luckily in the privacy of the Baker Street lodgings he could speak that enthusiastically and only have to put up with John's remonstrations. "It is a completely straight, clean slice – I think probably done by a heavy meat cleaver… or possibly a guillotine – nothing else would be able to create that neat an amputation… so, even if the person had wanted to have their arm re-attached it would have been impossible… the nerves, bone, everything have been separated too neatly for it to be re-united successfully." To Sherlock that was everything about his experiment justified; if there was no possible chance of the arm being re-united, then any other actions done to it were acceptable. John cleared his throat, meaning to ask whether he had managed to measure whether the muscle fascicles _had _contracted any since the arm had first arrived, when there was a loud ring on the doorbell. Neither John nor Sherlock endeavoured to answer the door at once, especially after Sherlock announced in a rather annoyed way;

"It's not a client." Both of their interests waned in the ringing doorbell – sure that Mrs. Hudson would answer it if no one else did. That was correct, less than a minute after the doorbell had run John and Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson's footsteps upon the staircase.

"Boys!" She called, "Boys, you've got a visitor!" John looked up, interested, from his paper, and even Sherlock's interest had been aroused – momentarily at the least – as he moved from the lying position he had assumed on the sofa. Sherlock had just placed the soles of his shoes on the wooden floorboards as Detective Inspector Lestrade swept into the room.

"It's you…" Sherlock stated, not at all putting any effort into hiding the disappointment, and slight annoyance, in his voice.

"Yes, it's me." Detective Inspector Lestrade said, then lowering his voice until it was very quiet, he added: "Unfortunately."

"Afternoon." John nodded cordially towards Lestrade. "I'm reckoning this isn't a social call?" John asked, sounding only a little bit hopeful, but those hopes were soon dashed by Lestrade.

"Unfortunately not." Lestrade replied, shaking his head. "We think we're in need of Sherlock's insight on a case."

"What kind of a case?" Sherlock asked abruptly, putting his long fingers together in front of his face.

"Murder." Lestrade answered, but before he could say even another word Sherlock cut in over him.

"Tsssss…. Boring." Sherlock dismissed it instantly.

"If you would let me finish…" Lestrade continued in an obvious annoyance. "We think it is a murder, but we haven't been able to completely rule out the possibility of suicide. It is within the department that is currently undergoing a government enquiry in accordance with the disappearance of several children and young adolescences."

"And?" Sherlock questioned.

"Why do you assume there is something else?" Lestrade shot back.

"I don't assume, I know… You would never come to me with a case unless there was something remarkable about it that none of your policemen can get their silly little brains around…" He stated plainly; Lestrade stared at Sherlock for a few tight-drawn moments and then sighed, his features softening.

"There seems to have been two attempts to kill him… We're not sure yet which one worked, and we don't know whether they were done by the same person or two different." Lestrade admitted, "It is odd… the forensics are still at the offices just now, they haven't moved the body yet. I came to ask whether you would grace us with your presence before we do move anything." Lestrade waited expectantly for Sherlock to make some kind of vocal or physical motion as to whether he would oblige the invitation, but Sherlock sat in silence staring blankly into the space in front of him. John silently hoped that Sherlock would accept, as otherwise the rest of his day would be consumed by his continual moaning that nothing interesting was happening. Eventually, after another few moments and in an increasingly awkward silence, Sherlock asked;

"Where?" Lestrade seemed to deflate, letting out a huge sigh of relief, taking this as Sherlock's assent to consulting in the matter.

"Tavistock Place, near the Education Centre." Lestrade answered.

"We will follow right behind you." Sherlock spoke to Lestrade curtly, who took his statement at face value, turned and left the flat. There was silence for another few moments, then Sherlock seemed to be re-invigorated in an incredibly excitable burst of energy – his eyes lit up and his pale thin cheeks flushed with colour as he could hardly repress his excitement, probably which would be regarded as inappropriate and out of place for the incident which he had just been informed of.

"Ready John?" Sherlock announced, moving very quickly out into the hall passage way; John followed, getting out of his arm chair and sensing that he was going to have to move fast to keep up with Sherlock in the excited state that was currently occupying him. In one swift movement Sherlock swept his coat from a rack near the top of the stairs – which incidentally held a considerable number of other odd objects, such as John's old walking stick and a sword with a curved blade – and put it on as he bounded down the stairs, John following closely in his wake. "A twice tried murder, or suicide… in a department under inquiry… sounds like this might prove interesting!" Sherlock was rubbing the palms of his hands together in the way he often did when contemplating the prospect of a new case.

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><p><strong>AN: I hope you enjoyed that- I certainly loved writing it! I'd be grateful at receiving any advice or constructive criticism for how I can make it better- so if you have any, drop me a message or a review! Thanks :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John H. Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are the intellectual copyright of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and I hold no claim upon them.**

**A/N: This story, although set in the modern 21st Century, is highly influenced by the structure of the original stories about Sherlock Holmes.  
>I'm highly enjoying writing this- and I hope anyone who reads it will highly enjoy it too!<br>Rated T, but this may move up to M as events unfold later on. Enjoy! :)**

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><p>Sherlock jumped out of the cab and slammed the door shut, John had sensed correctly that he was going to have to move quickly and maneuvered out of the taxi before the door swung shut. They had stopped outside a large building, which at first glance seemed to be several different blocks of offices; but on closer inspection it became apparent that it was an amalgamation of several smaller buildings that all fit together into one institution. The lowest part of the building, where the front door and reception was looked like it was the original part of the building – massive, old stones made up the front walls protruding out onto the street roughly four feet in front of any of the buildings on either side. Then added onto the left side of the building was a granite grey brick extension which had a definite look of the 1960's about it; the last extension was modern – high panels of sheet glass and steel towered high above the original part of the building. It was a monstrosity of a building, rather unsightly and the sight of it made you wonder who would have thought that both of those extensions would make the building look any better; or maybe they just really needed the space. In the time that Sherlock and John had been in the cab on the way to this building, thick grey rain clouds had rolled in and were hanging heavy and low in the sky, and as Sherlock stood for a few moments, the rain began to fall in large drops. Sherlock headed towards the reception of the building, where there was a cordoned off area and several police officers were standing guard; making sure no unauthorised person was admitted to the building. One of these officers held up his hand to stop Sherlock and John from entering the building, Sherlock had ducked under the thick police tape and was completely ignoring the officer that had told him to stop, but at that moment Sergeant Donovan had appeared at the foyer door.<p>

"Oh no, Lestrade didn't come and pick you up freak, did he?" She rolled her eyes, she thought her superior was mad for consulting Sherlock and she wasn't afraid to hide that fact. Sherlock didn't even seem to hear her, he just pushed past; John, however, paused to reply;

"Lestrade came by and asked whether Sherlock would consult on this case. Has he arrived yet?" Sergeant Donovan's brows had knit together with a look of annoyance as Sherlock had proceeded to sweep along the corridor towards a stairwell through a set of glass double doors.

"Third floor, you won't miss him." She answered, but John had already begun to follow Sherlock. Sherlock was not, by any means, slowing down to wait for John; but John caught up with him at the top of the second set of stairs. Not all of John's military fitness and precision had left him, even though he had been invalided out of the army for nearly two years from the present. "So what makes this case interesting?" He asked, as they ascended the last flight of stairs; at the top there was a huddle of people, probably those who worked in the department or those surrounding departments that had heard the news and decided to see what was going on for themselves. They must have been there for quite a while as the third floor had been cordoned off, and no one was permitted to leave until they had been spoken to, and dismissed, by the police.

"Murder John! Murder in a city office, while everyone was at work – even you have to admit that a feat like that takes some nerve and audacity!" He exclaimed rather joyously. "And from the information Lestrade supplied us with; it appears that this man was subject to two attempts on his life at the same time! That doesn't come about by mere coincidence!" Lestrade was standing in the middle of the corridor, one hand propped against his hip and the other was gesticulating animatedly to one young police officer and –

"Anderson…" Sherlock spat at the man standing all in protective white forensic clothing who was in a doorway to an office, presumably where the dead man was. "Oh God I knew it would be you… It's _always _you." Sherlock stated honestly, his voice ringing with contempt and disgust; Anderson's face was twisted into a sneer of his own, but before he even got the chance to speak Lestrade barked out an order:

"Anderson, I need you and the rest of the forensic team out of that office now." Anderson stared blankly at Detective Inspector Lestrade for an infinitesimal moment, and then seemed to regain himself.

"You can't be serious?" Anderson questioning disbelievingly. "You're going to allow _him _into a crime scene, _again?_ Before the actual forensic team have finished their primary investigation?"

"Yes Anderson, I am deadly serious." Lestrade replied dryly, "I need you out of there." John couldn't suppress the suspicion that Sherlock was really enjoying this display of dominance and preference by Lestrade, his eyebrows were raised and the corners of his mouth were curved upwards in a smile – Sherlock's distinct features were clearly imprinted with an appearance of triumph over Anderson. Once he saw that antagonistic look on Sherlock's face, John was sure that he was intentionally playing it up trying to anger Anderson even more – but Sherlock's getting at Anderson was a definite improvement from finding situations to annoy John! It was several minutes later that Anderson and the rest of his forensic team had cleared their way out of the office which still had the corpse sat behind his desk.

"You have ten minutes at the very most, understood?" Lestrade informed John and Sherlock.

"As if I'd need ten minutes!" Sherlock muttered loudly as he ducked under a line of tape at the door of the office with John following him. "I'll need your medical opinion John." Sherlock stated, standing right in the middle of the office facing away from the dead man; seemingly surveying the surroundings with a casual, uncaring air about him. John moved slowly around behind the desk; the figure behind the desk was slumped heavily to the right side, one elbow leaning on the arm of his computer chair – the lids of his eyes were half open, but the gaze coming out from the eyes underneath them was glassy.

"Do we have a name for him?" John requested of Sherlock, who was still facing the opposite way – which in itself was most irregular; Sherlock was not at all the squeamish kind, on the contrary this was usually the kind of thing that interested him most.

"Clearly obtuse!" He commented abruptly, waving his hand towards a frame upon the wall – John scowled at this reaction and moved towards the frame. It was a mounted certificate of qualification; which bore the name: Terrence Milner, BA (Hons) Social Work. So there was the answer to John's, seemingly, impertinent question. John turned his attention back to the dead man and the dead man's position; Sherlock remained with his back to the desk and the corpse for a very long time. John, in the time intervening, careful not to displace anything or cause the body to be moved greatly (not wishing to be reprimanded by the police, or by Sherlock himself) touched the man's unsleeved arm – it was still warm, and had a clammy feel to the touch. As his eyes travelled upwards he noted the glassy and unfocused stare, and knew that this would be accounted as coming about after the death of Mr. Terrence Milner, but still could not quite suppress the suspicion that if he had been drugged or poisoned then this unclear gaze could have come about premortem. Then in moving round the back of the man he started, and had to take a closer look – the man was wearing two hearing aids, both linked to an odd looking coil that seemed affixed to the man's head under his hair. Very tentatively John pulled at the coil on the man's head, and discovered that it was held in place by a strong magnetic pull – as it took some force to remove it, and then it snapped back into its place when held around the same area.

"Sherlock…" John started, feeling that this development might just be worthy enough to interest his friend; Sherlock made a disgruntled noise in being interrupted while thinking. "I think this might be of some interest to you, this man has two cochlear implants." At first Sherlock didn't react, and John wondered whether this fact might not be of any interest at all.

"Well I knew that he had a hearing impairment of some kind." Sherlock answered lazily, finally turning around to face John and the dead man. His face was pale, and his actions appeared that of a man who did not have any interest, but John noted the fire that seemed to have kindled in his friend's eyes since they had arrived on the scene. Before John could endeavour to inquire as to how Sherlock had known this even though he had hardly spared the corpse a glance since they had entered the room, Sherlock had begun to explain; "He has a text phone… that's not a piece of equipment that you would usually expect to find in an office; it's specialist equipment, probably bought by himself, but he also has a cable attached to the back of the phone – one with an attachment that looks like it would plug in directly to some kind of hearing aid." John looked at the desk – Sherlock's explanation was, of course, clearly proven by the phone upon the desk, which had a panel for the text to be read upon and a long cable with looked similar to a set of headphones, but had an unusual head attachment where the ear pieces would normally be. Sherlock suddenly seemed to spring to life, he moved swiftly around the back of the desk, stood right next to where John was and began to examine the current situation intently. The rain was hammering harshly against the window behind the two of them, but apart from that there was no other noise in the room. Sherlock's eyes darted from the man's body – which he carefully examined without once touching it – to the desk and the objects placed upon it in a very neat, meticulous order. This was a common occurrence, that his eyes seemed to drink in the surroundings, as though he was committing every tiny detail to his memory – so that he would be readily able to recall it, if need be.

The effects on the desk did show around which time the man had died, there was a half empty mug of tea balanced on the very edge of the desk; a plastic box with an apple, a chocolate biscuit and a sandwich with a bite out of it lying on top of its plastic wrapping. At the time of his death Terrence had been having his lunch. Sherlock hovered over the desk in the fashion that there was something he was looking for, but couldn't quite place it.

"Something is missing – something's wrong." He muttered in frustration, "He was eating his lunch using his left hand – there are crumbs predominantly down the left hand side of his trousers and his left sleeve. He is right handed, but eating with his left because he was writing with his right. His pen is by the side of his keyboard – but where is the paper that he was writing upon? The gap there on the desk is where the notepad sat, but it doesn't look like he's moved it."

"Has someone else removed it?" John asked.

"Someone?" Sherlock repeated.

"The killer?" John suggested, looking up at Sherlock, whose keen eyes were still flitting from object to object on the desk; Sherlock gave his reply as a rather indistinct noise. Sherlock had suddenly bent over the desk and taken a hearty sniff over the mug of tea, then his forehead creased for a moment, then unwrinkled.

"I think we have another interesting object to give Lestrade and his team." Sherlock stated, drawing up to his full height and motioning to John that he was finished in the room. John could not quite see how Sherlock had consumed all the information that the room could present in such a short amount of time, especially as most of his time in the room with his back to the dead man; but John knew that it was not fitting to argue with Sherlock when he was so vastly superior in observing and recognising every little detail, therefore followed him out without protesting.

Detective Inspector Lestrade started and goggled in amazement as the two companions marched out of the room after having been in there for just a little over five minutes.

"Are you done?" He asked incredulously.

"Of course." Sherlock snapped quickly.

"And…?" Lestrade started tentatively a few moments of silence.

"You told us that there had been two attempts on this man's life today, even with that small detail you are sorely incorrect. There has been no less than three in the short space of one work morning." Sherlock answered superciliously, both Lestrade and John seemed transfixed by this statement which had been casually thrown out by Sherlock. "There is no doubt that someone wanted this man dead, so much so that they have left no possible option for death to be escaped. There is more than one person involved, one of them will undoubtedly have medical or, at least, chemical knowledge – three different types of poison have been administered.

"How can you –" Lestrade started, but Sherlock was still speaking, oblivious to Lestrade and John who were struggling to comprehend how Sherlock could have deduced this.

"It would be well for you to find out who made his tea – if there is an assigned person who has that job, and if there is, whether they were alone when they made today's lunchtime tea. Otherwise someone else has tampered with Mr. Milner's mug. Not even peppermint tea can mask the smell of cyanide within that cup. I'm surprised that he didn't notice it himself!" Sherlock's eyebrows knit together for an instant, John could have laughed at his friends' lack of accounting for other people's under developed knowledge of chemicals or poisons. "I'm guessing that was one of the attempts that your boys picked up on; the other that I'm sure they noticed was the puncture wound in Mr. Milner's back – the fact that his shirt has a round patch of blood surrounding the area in which he was stabbed with the syringe. I cannot confirm definitively, but I place my highest bets on morphine, or some other opium being the content of that syringe. There are a few characteristic symptoms of an opium overdose present in the man – and I highly doubt that he was a drug addict. He was too much of an introvert for anything like that – he doesn't even drink." Sherlock's last comment seemed as though it could be quite irrelevant, but still John fathomed to understand where that piece of information had been drawn from. "I suspect that you have already put out a request for all the offices to be searched for a discharged syringe, so I won't waste my time on impressing that you won't find it."

"But, the third?" Lestrade questioned, a mixture of confusion and amazement in his deep voice.

"Get your forensic team to search every single one of Mr. Milner's filling cabinet – in one of them, most likely the one closest the right wall, they will find a gas canister which will, now, be completely empty – but will probably have some kind of timed release. Mr. Milner always worked with his door closed, so the gas could be released inside his office and would have dissipated long before anyone disturbed him. Whoever placed it in his filling cabinet would probably expect that they would be able to retrieve the canister before he was found dead, but I don't think that has gone their way… Mr. Milner was found very shortly after his death; therefore they never got the chance to remove it…"

"You are certain about this?" Lestrade asked, Sherlock answered this question with the annoyance that always accompanied when his well explained deductions were brought into question.

"Extremely certain." He growled. "There is something deeper going on here, this man was wanted dead because he _knows _something… I haven't been able to ascertain as to what that he knows could be of such importance, but it could be to do with this scandal that is going on at the moment. Items have been removed from Mr. Milner's room – the most telling of which being a notebook or pad of paper, maybe with something that whoever killed him didn't want to be found out, possibly incriminating a person, or people. That is what I'd be placing my effort into evaluating." Sherlock finished.

"Right… well, thank you." Lestrade said graciously, but Sherlock was already making movements as to leaving. "John, speak to the work colleagues – find out as much as you can about Mr. Milner and his life in here. I expect that will be fine with you, Lestrade? You never know what small clue might lead to the unraveling of all of these events!"

"It's not a problem." Lestrade had replied, as Sherlock had turned on his heels and was marching off down the corridor.

"Where are you going?" John called after him, slightly disgruntled that he was being left to do the work of the normal police force.

"Research!" Came Sherlock's reply.

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><p><strong>AN: I hope you enjoyed that- I certainly loved writing it! I'd be grateful at receiving any advice or constructive criticism for how I can make it better- so if you have any, drop me a message or a review! Thanks :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John H. Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are the intellectual copyright of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and I hold no claim upon them.  
><strong>

**A/N: This story, although set in the modern 21st Century, is highly influenced by the structure of the original stories about Sherlock Holmes.**  
><strong>I'm highly enjoying writing this- and I hope anyone who reads it will highly enjoy it too!<strong>  
><strong>Rated T, but this may move up to M as events unfold later on. Enjoy! :)<strong>

* * *

><p>The colleagues of Mr. Terrence Milner had all been herded into one of the conference rooms situated at the end of the corridor, before a set of double doors which led to a stairwell. In the conference room there were three men and four women in variable states of agitation, distress, and – in one of the young woman's cases – hysteria; a young policeman sat in the corner. Several people's heads turned in John's direction as he entered the room.<p>

"Uh, I need to speak to you all – individually. " John announced finally, once their ogling stares of the men and women had been drawn away by the appearance of Lestrade in the doorway behind John.

"Mr. Ewans, is there somewhere that Dr. Watson can talk to you all individually?" Lestrade asked in the general direction of two of the men. "Mr. Ewans is the head of this department." Lestrade added under his breath so only John could hear him; John assumed he was addressing the middle sized man who was meticulously neatly dressed with every single hair in its immaculate place upon his head, but a tall skinny man with an untidy mop of blonde hair replied in a husky voice;

"There's another empty conference room across the corridor, it's a bit smaller than this one. You can use that if you want."

"Right…" John nodded.

"One at a time Dr. Watson just has a few questions to ask you." Lestrade commanded, using his full authority as the police officer in charge. The young man, Mr. Ewans, who had spoken to inform John and Lestrade about the opposite conference room stood up.

"I'm the head of department, you need to speak to me first." He stated quite bluntly. Mr. Ewans led the way across the corridor and opened the door to a slightly smaller conference room, with a small table and four chairs; to John's slight annoyance Detective Inspector Lestrade had accompanied them into the conference room and closed the door behind him. John took a seat on one side of the table and Mr. Ewans took the other on the opposite side of the table, while Lestrade took place in the seat slightly to the left behind John. For a brief moment John felt that he was an interviewer for some bizarre interview.

"I've got a few questions to ask about Mr. Milner. How long had he been working in the department?"

"He had been here for just over two years." There was something curt and impatient in the young man's voice and manner which evidently he was trying, and failing, to conceal.

"Did you know Mr. Milner well?" John asked; he had taken a small notebook out of the left inner pocket of his jacket, and felt increasingly like a young police sergeant taking notes for a superior officer- but of course that's what he was in regards to Sherlock.

"I didn't, no. I've only been here for two months – I was moved here at the beginning on the investigation." There was still something about the shortness in Mr. Ewans voice which put John's nerves on edge.

"Do you think that this could have anything to do with the investigation?" John asked and instantly observed Mr. Ewans bristle with uncomfort.

"I highly doubt it…" He replied agitatedly. "That's currently a completely different investigation which has gone beyond the reach of the police."

"So you don't think this could be done by someone within the department?"

"Oh God no!" He ejaculated his face in a mask of some disgust. "I've not been here long, but I've always deemed myself as having a fairly good judge of character, I'm not working with a murderer." Mr. Ewans was looking directly into John's eyes and there was something like fire within them – like he was so completely and utterly convinced of this fact.

"Okay." John nodded. "Do you know anything about Mr. Milner's personal life? Or do you know if anyone else in the department was particularly close to him?"

"Well, the rest have been here much longer than I, so undoubtedly they'll know him much better than I ever did." He answered, losing the air of annoyance as he replied that question. "I think out of everyone Corrina is the one he was closest to."

"Corrina? Which one is Corrina?" John inquired, jotting the name down quickly onto his notebook.

"Oh, she's not in today… She's got this week off on annual leave." Mr. Ewans said.

"Right, thanks." Mr. Ewans pushed his chair back and stood up to leave. "Just before you leave, is it possible that I could have a list of everyone who works in the department and their home addresses?" John interrupted him just as he reached the door of the conference room.

"I guess that wouldn't be too much of a problem." He agreed. "I'll do that for you now." He turned back to leave, but John stopped him once more.

"Do you have a swipe-card log in system, or a signing in and out document?" John asked quickly.

"Yes, down at the main reception, we all have to sign in and out." He answered.

"And visitors have to sign in too?"

"Yes."

"And I'd be able to get a copy of that too?"

"You'd have to ask at reception, but I'm sure that they'd five you it… seeing the circumstances."

"Right, thank you. Could you ask one of your colleagues to come through?"

Over an hour and a half later John had finished his questioning of all the colleagues and he was in possession of a list with all of those who worked within the department along with their home addresses, and a copy of the signing in and out list. His notebook was tucked safely into his left breast pocket, which now had several pages of notes about the department and Mr. Milner; John was glad that those interviews were finished – the last one had been almost unbearable. It had been the youngest woman in the office, a relatively new associate within the department; she had made the tea for all of the other workers within the department, she had also been the one who found Mr. Milner within the office – and therefore was extremely hysterical both at the moment she found him and the point where John had attempted to ask her questions. In the end John had terminated the interview, thinking it may be better to pick it up again at a later time and date. He would be certain to visit the woman Corrina Drylie, who by all accounts was closest to the dead man.

The rain was still pouring down, but the wind had picked up and the appearance of all those who had ventured out into the street was that of drowned rats; John did not expressly desire to walk home in such weather – not with his notebook and new documents which would possibly be considered important by Sherlock, they would be of little use if they were sodden through. He hailed a cab and climbed in, wondering whether Sherlock would be back at the falt when he arrived himself, or if he would be off somewhere unknown researching some strange occurrence which had presented itself to him as they had inspected the office, and of which he wanted to confirm before he made any further deductions.

Sherlock was sitting in his usual armchair, his head sunk upon his chest – evidently in deep thought. John didn't bother to interrupt him, as doing so would not result in anything, least of all finding out what he was thinking. John placed his newly collected documents on the coffee table which had piles of books, papers and several dirty plates, but there was a new addition of paper in the only clear bit of the desktop which had three lines of chemical formula in Sherlock's scrawled writing:

_' 2 CH4 + 2 NH3 + 3 O2 2 HCN + 6 H20.'_

_'C21 H16 FN3 OS.'_

_'C17 H19 NO3.'_

Each line was separated with a single dash – clearly defining them as separate chemical compounds; John stared at it for a couple of moments – trying to recall the chemistry training of his medical degree and associate the chemical formulas with their physical compound. Only the last line stood out to him, and that was because it had a great use within medicine;

"But that's morphine…" John spoke aloud to himself, without realising that he had made a sound.

"Yes John, I knew you would recognise that." Sherlock drawled slowly, "I am convinced that is the opiate that was injected, it seems cleaner than heroin and easier to obtain than diazepam or something else of the sort." John settled himself into the armchair sitting across from Sherlock – whose eyes retained the distant, meditative look as he pondered. The silence rose and settled within the room, John was fairly pleased that Sherlock was not in such a mood that his proclamation of knowledge had been disdained as though it had been stupidity.

"So your research was finding out what chemicals had been used?" John questioned, attempting to keep any resignation out of his voice. In past cases Sherlock had liked to hear the accounts of those involved first hand, he rarely gave that job to any other.

"That and some other." Sherlock muttered quietly; he then seemed to re-animate, pulling his mind out from the depths of where he had been recessing and to the present situation. "What did you find out from the colleagues?"

"Not very much of great importance I think." John started.

"You always seem to think the least importance of some of the finest detail." Sherlock commented abruptly, John let this slight upon his collection of facts go.

"There are nine people who work in the department in total. Mr. Ewans the head of department has only been there for a couple of months; he'd been placed there while the investigation about the disappearing children is on-going." John recounted, "All the other members of the department have been there between seven months and thirteen years. Mr. Milner had been there for just over two years; he seems to have been well liked by his colleagues – but he was also rather introverted, he kept himself to himself. Although they all said that Miss. Corrina Drylie was the only person in the department that knew him outside of work… but she has been on annual leave all this week, so I didn't get the chance to speak to her."

"Hmm… we will endeavour to visit her as soon as we can before Lestrade gets there and tramples his exceedingly large feet over the situation and scares her out of telling us anything." Sherlock cut in over John, he hadn't necessarily appeared to be listening to John as he spoke – but had indeed been drinking in every fact that John had spoken. There was another silence between them as Sherlock appeared to relapse into a thoughtful phase.

"You said three attempts…" John ended the silence abruptly, Sherlock nodded with an expression of resignation to having to explain his deductions over again in greater detail to his companion. "You alluded to cyanide in his tea, and an injection of morphine or some opiate, but the gas canister? I saw no evidence of that."

"That's because you were too busy looking at the corpse to look around the room, and I don't think you noticed the strange odour that first struck me when we entered the room." Sherlock began to speak, leaving no time for John to agree or otherwise. "It was like castor oil, or something along that kind – that is why I knew some kind of gas had been released within the room; the early discovery of the body had led to the door being opened – so the gas had not been given the chance to dissipate completely, but it became diluted with the air from the corridor… but it didn't quite loose it all of it's distinctive smell."

"And what gas was it?"

"That is what the most peculiar part is… we will have to wait for absolute confirmation from the morgue – but I'm convinced it must be ricin gas. Nothing else would leave that kind of smell – but it seems like an odd choice to use as a poison, in small amounts it wouldn't be potent enough to kill someone; there have been any experiments on its uses in toxilogical warfare – but to all knowledge I can find, no real progress have been made in these experiments."

"So they've used a gas that possibly might not have killed him?" John propositioned, "Could that maybe not be an attempt on his life, but just something to scare him?"

"It's an odd choice for either purpose; if you just wanted to scare someone you'd go for some kind of hallucinogenic drug that would result in scaring him… and if you wanted to effectively kill someone using gas there are many other options that would be more clinical, cleaner – the only problem with any of those gases is they would be harder to contain. The Nazi's used hydraulically locked chambers for a reason – the gas was so deadly poisonous that anyone in the immediate vicinity could be in danger from it. Once diluted in an open space, ricin loses most of its potency, but other gases like sarin that was used in Nazi's regime stays just as toxic until the whole area has been given a whole day for the gas to clear from the chamber. Any one of those more toxic gases like sarin would have been quicker and cleaner in reaching the end goal – but there would also be the possibility that someone innocent could get caught in the crossfire. This wasn't a random, senseless act of crime; this was a clear concise calculated action against Mr. Milner – with the desired result of him being dead being achieved. I personally think that the gas had no effect upon his death at all – I believe that one of the people involved was in charge of the gas, and the other administered the opiate and put the cyanide in his drink. I think Mr. Milner had been injected with the morphine/opiate first, before either the gas or the cyanide was anywhere near him – it would take a couple of minutes, maybe ten at the very most before the drug began to have a profound effect on him, then I would hazard a guess that when his throat and chest began to tighten that he would take a drink to try and ease his breathing – hence finishing him off within seconds, I doubt he would even make it to a minute with the other drugs in his system, we will have to wait for the morgue to confirm that however. I also think that the second person involved was more serious and convicted about Mr. Milner being silenced." Sherlock was silent after his long, and somewhat singular talk, which John was sure was more for Sherlock's own necessity rather than his. The silence that followed was very long, but not uncomfortable – Sherlock and John were buried in their own thoughts. After ten minutes John rose from his armchair and proceeded into the kitchen and began to make tea for himself. He paused; usually it was at this point when Sherlock announced that he would like tea or coffee also - but no call came; Sherlock was too deep in his own thoughts to pay any attention to anything that was going on around him. Despite the lack of request John made coffee for Sherlock and placed it on the table next to Sherlock's armchair; Sherlock had drawn his long legs in towards him – he looked rather feline, curled up like a cat with his bright deep-socketed eyes shining out from the dark shadows that were casting onto his face. He made no movement of thanks, or even recognition, as John placed the mug on the table. John resumed his place in his armchair with his mug of tea in one hand, and with his notebook and the sign in sheet in the other; slowly he began to examine it – clocking all of the relevant names of those who he had spoken to, and when they had signed in, and if they had signed out. It wasn't much use at that moment – but perhaps when the time of death had been approximated by Molly in the morgue then knowing whether all of Mr. Milner's colleagues had been within the department at that time would help.

It was quite an extended period of silence that followed, where John rifled through the content that he had written in his notebook while speaking to all the colleagues within the department. Then very suddenly and spontaneously Sherlock sprang to his feet, full of an abundance of a nervous, twitchy energy:

"Names?" Sherlock demanded curtly, he had sifted through the papers that John had left on the coffee table, John blinked up at Sherlock. "Come on John!" Sherlock snapped his hands together, so clearly he was formulating some kind of theory or idea in his head which he needed the names of the colleagues to fit into his planning.

"Findlay Ewans- " John started, Sherlock cut in over him once more.

"Head of department?" He inquired.

"Yes…" John continued in some confusion and resignation, Sherlock waved his hand lazily meaning for him to carry on speaking. "Peter Read, Abigail Riggans, Aeron Chung, Sophia Wood, Dawn McGilivray, Dr. Elaine Norther and Corrina Drylie."

"The last being the absent one today?" Sherlock paused where he was standing. "So you haven't spoken to her yet?"

"And Miss. Wood – I couldn't get a coherent sentence out of her, so I didn't really get to ask her any questions." John informed him; Sherlock had placed the tips of his long thin fingers together in front of his face and his forehead was creased with intense thought. John was convinced that he could almost hear the cogs within Sherlock's brain turning so hard and so fast that they were making a physical noise.

"Let's go, come on – I need to talk to these people. I'll be able to get more details from them than I got from you." Sherlock was moving again; John looked at his mug of tea which he had not finished, sighed and followed Sherlock out for a cross city journey.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I hope you enjoyed that- I certainly loved writing it! I'd be grateful at receiving any advice or constructive criticism for how I can make it better- so if you have any, drop me a message or a review! Thanks :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John H. Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are the intellectual copyright of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and I hold no claim upon them.**

**A/N: This story, although set in the modern 21st Century, is highly influenced by the structure of the original stories about Sherlock Holmes.**  
><strong>I'm highly enjoying writing this- and I hope anyone who reads it will highly enjoy it too!<strong>  
><strong>Rated T, but this may move up to M as events unfold later on. Enjoy! :)<strong>

* * *

><p>He had been one of five when he started; but he couldn't quite tell how long he had been in the same place, with no clocks or windows in the room which he was encased there was no means of telling the pass of time – and he was sure that the days felt longer because of this denial of sunlight or distraction. For even the sound of a ticking clock would be a welcome distraction to ease the senses from the monotony of time; but even if there had been some means of distraction it would not have appeased the uneasiness growing within Adam McLachan's mind. Several times he had convinced himself that he must be dreaming, but on exerting physical strength against his bondage he felt pain, and the irrepressible pain he felt in his stomach when he knew he had been without food for days, led to his conclusion that he could not be suffering from some horrible dream or delusion. He devoted much time now to wondering where the other four that he had initially been brought with, had gone; and why he had been the one who remained still – the others had disappeared, one by one, and none of the rest could place when they had vanished from the room. When the first one, the youngest girl, Samantha Carstairs, had vanished none of them could fully recall the last time they had seen or heard her… The room was shrouded in darkness for the majority of the time and in the darkness it was not easy to distinguish the outlines of people, or objects. They had come to the terrified conclusion that someone must be taking them away in the dark and the night. If all four of the others had been taken and never returned, surely nothing good could be coming to himself. There had been one major change however – the electric lights had been turned on for what Adam felt could surely be the last few days, if not longer; the white light reflecting blindingly off the walls and burned imprints of light into the back of his retinas so that even when he closed his eyes he could still see the irradiating white light. Now there was light in the room Adam could see his surroundings, when the lights had first been switched on he had wished they hadn't – along the wall was chained at least six other beds, very similar to a bed that would be found in a hospital; thin sheets were bundled upon each of the beds, all except from the bed that Adam was attached to. It didn't feel right – it felt too ominous, there was something definitely wrong… and there wasn't anyone that would be concerned about him disappearing, there wouldn't be anyone that would be looking for him. He hadn't seen his biological parents in over five years and there wasn't a snowflakes chance in hell that they would notice that he wasn't there, he had been under the care of social services on and off for all of his life – and then permanently from five years ago. His two younger siblings had been split up from him and were in separate foster homes, they wouldn't notice he had vanished until it would be too late… he was sure by that time that his inevitable fate would have come to pass, whatever that fate would come to be.<p>

The next time that Adam opened his eyes he was in complete darkness once more; in the darkness he strained his ears until he was positive that someone was moving around him in the room. He opened his mouth to cry out, but realised that his mouth had been gagged and that he couldn't make an audible sound. His eyes were still uncovered and he opened them the widest he could, but he could not penetrate the darkness around him – his eyes had become too accustomed to the light. He had no hope of fighting against whoever was in the room with him – he was still chained to the pipe running along the wall and the bind on his arm was as tight as ever, unable to be severed or broken. He had no chance against the firm hands the enclosed upon the biceps of his arms, pinning him down to the bed; he couldn't stop the sharp scratch below his left elbow, or stop the misty fugg that proceeded to descend into his brain and swim before his eyes. He knew he was moving in the dark, but his limbs felt like lead and he couldn't struggle against his captor; he was roughly dropped onto a flat cold object – he felt his shoulders connect with something metallic feeling – before his final darkness overcame his mind.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I hope you enjoyed that- I certainly loved writing it! I'd be grateful at receiving any advice or constructive criticism for how I can make it better- so if you have any, drop me a message or a review! Thanks :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John H. Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are the intellectual copyright of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and I hold no claim upon them.**

**A/N: This story, although set in the modern 21st Century, is highly influenced by the structure of the original stories about Sherlock Holmes.**  
><strong>I'm highly enjoying writing this- and I hope anyone who reads it will highly enjoy it too!<strong>  
><strong>Rated T, but this may move up to M as events unfold later on. Enjoy! :)<strong>

* * *

><p>Miss. Corrina Drylie hadn't gone away during her week of annual leave – the address that had been provided by the head of department led John and Sherlock to a residential area full of red-brick tenement flats. Sherlock's intimate knowledge of every street in London led him to know exactly where the two of them were headed, and exactly which door in the street would be the one which would lead to the flat where our recipient resided.<p>

It was clearly obvious from the instant that the door was opened inwards that the woman that we were there to interview already knew the circumstances in which we had come. Miss. Corrina Drylie was a young woman, not yet in her thirties – her features were clean cut and handsome, even though the expression painted across them was mingled with distress and agitation.

"Miss. Corrina Drylie?" John questioned, noticing that Sherlock was keeping his mouth pointedly shut and observing all that was possible in the few seconds that were presented to him; the woman nodded pushing a lock of brown hair out of her red-rimmed eyes.

"I guess you're here about Terri?" She croaked, her voice very weak and retained the definite sound of her having been crying prior to their arrival.

"Yes, my name's Dr. John Watson and this is-"

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock finished the sentence for John.

"Are… are you policemen? I've already spoken to some police officers." She asked, looking John and Sherlock up and down, evidently taking in the absence of a uniform.

"No. We're working independently alongside the police." Sherlock answered rather curtly.

"We just have a few questions that we'd like to ask you." John continued, shooting Sherlock a rather reproachful look and attempting to procure an invite inside, not particularly wishing to converse on her door threshold. "May we…?"

"Yes… of course." She held the door open to allow them to pass her into the hallway. "Straight along the hallway." She informed them as she closed her front door, proceeding to follow them along the hallway and into an extremely tidy sitting room. It struck John instantly that she was a tidy, clean woman – every surface was sparkling clean and all items appeared to be settled in their allotted place; no doubt Sherlock would be able to deduce much more from the room than he would. John could see his companion's eyes flickering from place to place – taking in every minute detail as he always did. "Please, sit down." She indicated to the sofa and sat herself down in one of the chairs, there was silence for a few seconds but it was clear that Miss. Drylie was collecting her thoughts into a sentence. "Can… is there no way that you could get the answers to your questions from the police officers that I spoke to earlier?"

"Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan never ask the correct questions, or on the occasion that they do, they never draw the correct conclusions from them." Sherlock stated in a rather matter-of-fact manner, John saw the woman's eyebrows rise as she had made no mention of the two police officers who had spoken to her previously, the prickly silence was somewhat broken by Miss. Drylie's resigned sigh.

"Alright, but I don't think there'll be much more I can tell you other than what I said to your colleagues." She answered quietly, clearing her throat and pulling distractedly at the sleeve of her jumper.

"I've already spoken to all your colleagues at the office – they all said that you were the closest to Mr. Milner." John said before Sherlock could make another declamatory comment about not being Lestrade's colleagues.

"His name was Terri!" She stated vehemently, her voice was strong, but her blue eyes were sparkling as tears began to well up inside them. "Don't make him even less than what he is – was…" She covered her face with her hand – John suspected that she was trying to supress a sob, he glanced over at his friend and was incredibly annoyed to notice that Sherlock had rest his elbow on the arm of the sofa, sunk his head into his hand and was looking about the room with a mixture of boredom and irritation, at the woman's display, painted across his features. The reason for this, seeming, lack of interest was completely unfounded – this was usually his ultimate interest, finding out any tiny pieces of small information which might fit together and make the whole work of art form a complete one in his mind, one that he could only finish by sealing it with his signature. "Sorry… sorry," Miss. Drylie apologised thickly, "Terri – he was, my best friend." Her words came in a stilted way, sounding forced and slightly unnatural.

"Of course." John reassured her, nodding. "How long have you known Terri?" John had twitched his notebook from his pocket, but he doubted he would be required to take verbatim notes as Sherlock's intellect stretched to an unbounding capacity when he needed to store information about cases.

"We were at university together." She answered after composing her exterior. "I was in the year below him; I got to know him when he was a third year."

"What was he like?" John asked, "As a person, I mean." He added on a moment later.

"Quiet, genuine. He used to be the archetypical geek-" She had relaxed back into her chair and her eyes had attained a somewhat dreamy look even though they were filled with tears that she was trying desperately not to let spill over onto her cheeks. "He didn't socialise much outside of class, his own year group didn't really know him well… The first time I met him he picked me up in the corridor outside one of our classes – I had been out the night before and I was definitely worse for wear." She had relapsed into a reminiscence, but neither John nor Sherlock remonstrated her for this – any small detail might build a more accurate character reference of the dead man. "Most people would just walk past a drunk student, leave them to get on with it, sort of thing, but he stopped and picked me up. He took me home and made sure that I was alright, I was too embarrassed to speak to him for ages; it took me three weeks to pluck up the courage to thank him for looking after me – but ever since the moment that I thanked him we became friends and I got to know him a lot better… he, he was one of the most caring people I've ever – sorry." She had begun to cry now, large tears were running down her face and dripping off into her lap.

"Was he ever more than just a friend?" John asked tentatively, understanding that the pain and distress that Miss. Drylie was feeling wasn't going to subside in a matter of minutes – no, it would be present for a long time to come – but in the long run asking a few questions wouldn't have that much of an effect.

"He was gay, wasn't he?" Sherlock broke into the conversation exceedingly precipitously; Miss. Drylie paused, eyeing Sherlock with some disdain.

"He never said in so many words, but I believe so…" She answered finally.

"He never really talked about anything like that in regards to himself – he was interested in my relationships…" Sherlock had become more interested in the conversation for some reason, like his brain had disengaged itself from what he had been considering before.

"Was he very deaf?" Sherlock inquired quickly, taking the conversation in a completely new direction.

"Yes." She nodded looking slightly bemused, "Without his aids he couldn't hear anything at all."

"And he had been so since he was a child?" Sherlock continued.

"A teenager, I think. He had meningitis when he was twelve which left him almost completely deaf, then he had an operation to implant his hearing aids."

"Had he ever made any comment about his hearing aids, or anything that they did that he didn't like?" John couldn't quite see where Sherlock was leading with this line of questions, but it seemed as clear as day to himself.

"Nothing major…" She answered slowly, looking like she was thinking over her answer. "I remember him getting annoyed about it once or twice at university during lectures… something about interference." She shrugged it off, but Sherlock's eyes had lit up with the sort of fire that meant he was on to a trail of some sort.

"Interference?" Sherlock commented, "Has he sent you any encrypted messages or emails recently?" A look of utter amazement passed over Miss. Drylie's face; at first she just stared at Sherlock dumbfounded, then her expression changed to one of bemusement and distrust.

"How… how did you know about that?" She questioned, sounding immensely worried; John stared at Sherlock for several seconds before he realised that his mouth was gaping slightly, and closed it. "He told me not to delete any of them or to show them to anyone."

"So you still have the messages?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't speak of them to Inspector Lestrade or Sergeant Donovan?"

"No… I didn't think they were of any importance…" She replied eventually.

"How many messages are there?" Sherlock asked leaning forwards, his thin hands clasping and unclasping as he addressed her.

"Seventeen."

"Could I get a copy of these messages?" She hesitated for a moment, but her resolve seemed to fade as she considered the current situation.

"They're all on my phone." She answered, plucking her mobile phone out of her jeans pocket; Sherlock held out his hand in request and she moved to hand it to him. John and Miss. Drylie watched Sherlock handling the phone, John could see from his position on the sofa that Sherlock was sending each one of the messages on to his own phone as a way of obtaining a record of all of them.

"The investigation going on within the department…" John started suddenly, taking the attention away from Sherlock; he observed that Miss. Drylie shifted in her chair. "Do you think that any of your colleagues would have reason to cover something up?"

"No!" She looked genuinely shocked at this question, and Sherlock paused in his activity to look up at her, "Why would you even ask a question like that?"

"It's just a line of inquiry…" John tried to pacify the obvious hurt he had caused. "We're not clear on whether an outsider was present in the department at the time of Mr. Miln – of Terri's death."

"So you think it was someone within the department?" Miss. Drylie had a touch of anger colouring the tones of her voice now. "No. No one within the department had anything to hide – the investigation has shown nothing so far, and I don't think it will… mistakes and accidents happen, especially within the care system. I don't know how those children went missing, but it wasn't down to anyone within the department."

"Alright, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"Did Lestrade not ask you that question?" Sherlock cut across John as he was speaking, his tone was one of incredulous glee.

"No! Why would they ask anything like that?" She shook her head.

"Good, good…" Sherlock was clasping and unclasping his hands again as he thought over the statement, he leant forwards and placed Miss. Drylie's phone upon the low coffee table as he was finished. "Right, thank you, that is all we needed to know." He moved to stand up and John followed him, pocketing his notebook again, slightly amused at the abrupt ending of the interview.

"Oh…" Her look of surprise mirrored John's as she stood up to follow John and Sherlock along the hallway and to close the door behind them.

Sherlock's pace was brisk; he seemed to have been imbued with a new sense of thrill from the second half of the interview with Miss. Drylie. John marched along behind Sherlock, who had his eyes fixed upon the screen of his phone, completely oblivious to the cars and traffic speeding by along the dual carriageway.

"I didn't finish that interview Sherlock – I didn't ask her _half _the questions that I was planning to." John remonstrated Sherlock, who had returned his phone to his coat pocket, thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and loped along in his usual fashion.

"You didn't need to ask those questions, they were clearly lucid." He spoke offhandedly, but there was a mere lofty trace about his air.

"Not to me…" John muttered in an undertone

"John, oh John – it's always interesting to find out just how little you observe when we're involved in a case like this." Sherlock appeared to be rather amused by the conversation, a smirk was dancing across his features and John scowled at the sight of it.

"I may not be as trained in the art of deduction as you are-"

"_Science _of deduction John… it is unquestionably a science. The observations are the creative formulations; the end result is the art." Sherlock conjectured, his smirk still firmly present on his face. "You have the opportunity for observation, just lack the capacity for the intricate details of deduction."

"Alright Sherlock, I know how wonderful your brain is, now shut up about yourself and tell me what you 'deducted' from the half finished interview." John snapped rather waspishly, yet understanding Sherlock's need for grandiose gestures when it came to the results of a case which he was working on.

"I've not finished evaluating yet, I'd prefer to have the full picture before I give the final account… I'm not quite clear on all of the details, I'd like to clear a few things up first." John sighed – sometimes working alongside Sherlock Holmes could be the most infernally irritating predicament; but it was easily admitted that Sherlock fully stimulated with a case was definitely more bearable than a bored Sherlock. Stimulated Sherlock could be condescending, overexciteable, would go without sleep for days on end when he felt a case needed sufficient attention, would survive on the sparcest amounts of food, fuelling his mental brainpower with large quantities of nicontine gained through cigarettes and nicotine patches often in combination with one another; but that was nothing in comparison to the bored Sherlock, who either became sulky and taciturn, or extremely irascible, spending hours bent over a microscope, or playing his violin for long stretches of time (generally in the early hours of the morning, thus disturbing John and everyone elses' sleep), taunting any client that presented themself with a problem that was "not worthy" of his expertise, or in the most extreme case, resorting to some chemical to provide a means of stimulation that would prevent his over-wired brain from descending into boredom-induced madness in which he would tear his intellect to shreds.

As John had been debating internally as to which "version" of Sherlock he preferred he had continued to march alongside Sherlock (in his deeply ingrained militaristic style) he had failed to pay attention to exactly which direction they were headed; it was only when he came out of his reverie that he realised he wasn't sure in which direction they were headed. Of course with Sherlock's knowledge of streets and locations it was practically impossible to get lost – but that didn't account for the direction they were walking in, _away _from Baker Street.

"Uh… Sherlock?" John started, breaking the silence as they walked, "Where are we going? Isn't the flat in the opposite-"

"We're not going to the flat, not yet anyway." He replied, "We're going back to the offices."

"Right…" John paused, Sherlock had drawn out his phone again and was riffling through the messages that he had forwarded on from Miss. Drylie's phone to his own. "Why?"

"Because there is something missing. I'm more than positive of that, and I believe it is imperative to this case." Sherlock sighed rather dramatically. "Miss. Drylie commented that he was a geek – I don't think that he was a geek; I _do_, however, think that he was intensely clever, much more clever than any of the people he worked with gave him credit for… I've no idea why some of the people with the most reasoned analytical minds end up in such mundane jobs like a _social worker_." Sherlock scorned his last words, wrangling something inside John.

"Maybe he wanted to do something worthwhile…"

"Worthwhile?" He was virtually laughing in open contempt now; John regrouped quickly from Sherlock's scoffing.

"Okay – so maybe he didn't decide to wage a one-man war against the criminal underworld or anything as great as you have, but maybe helping abandoned kids within the care system was _his _way of doing something worthy within society." Sherlock was eyeing John with one eyebrow raised so high that it was in danger of disappearing into his hairline.

"Alright, alright!" Sherlock conceded in obvious beguilement. "But my main post still stands – he was far more intelligent than people thought." He was fiddling about with his phone again, John suspected he was still looking over the messages.

"How did you know about-" He started to ask, but Sherlock cut in over once more.

"The messages?" He broke over. "Technically I didn't they were a bit of a lucky estimation. I was considering what he had been writing about the time of his death, and why someone would want to remove it…"

"Because it would be incriminating?" John suggested, attempting to focus his own thought process in on the methods Sherlock used when forming conclusions.

"That's one possibility, or the other is that it wasn't removed." John's attempted at following Sherlock's brain process halted at this point; where Sherlock had come up with the possibility that the notepad/ paper _hadn't_ been removed was completely foreign. "If he had been writing a message, it's most likely it would be encrypted – just like the previous messages all had been-"

"What do you mean by 'encrypted'?" John asked, for his answer Sherlock thrust his phone into John's hand with one of the encrypted messages open.

"Look," He commanded, "Look, _that's _what I mean by encrypted!" John stared down at the screen of the phone; there were no words on it, just string after string of digits.

"What?" John questioned, slightly confused. "What is this?"

"That is the reason I knew that he wasn't given enough credit for his intelligence." Sherlock stated, sounding pleased with himself.

"That's nice – but what actually _is it_?" John repeated, trying to ignore his friends' avoidance tactics.

"It's a code – an encrypted message that he didn't want anyone else to see; he's broken it down so that pretty much no one else would be able to understand it without him explaining it, or someone having a similar level of intellect as him – which amounts to very few people!" Every syllable sounded overcome with expectant glee at this new found discovery of his.

"But you are one of those people who can match his intellect." John stated.

"Match and easily surpass – easily so… but I'd prefer to have the full set of messages so that I can crack the code correctly first time." Sherlock answered.

Sergeant Donovan was still in her post stationed outside the building offices; along with several other police officers who had clearly been stationed there deliberately. It was a little after half nine when John and Sherlock arrived at the office building.

"Back again freak?" She exclaimed, blocking John and Sherlock's path into the office; the lights were still on inside and John wondered whether the departments complied with the normal nine to five working hours, or whether they would remain open all hours – it's not as though all children in the care system only needed attention during the day. "I thought you would have figured it all out by now, you've had – oh, five hours to think about it all." Her voice was dripping in sarcasm as her eyes flickered from Sherlock to John and back again.

"It's not possible to form an accurate conclusion when you are not in requisition of all the facts." Sherlock denoted glibly, his actions towards Sergeant Donovan were generally blunt, to say the least, but he attained a greater impatience when she became a blockade to his completion of a train of thought.

May we go in?" John interrupted as both Donovan and Sherlock glared at one another; Donovan with suspicion and Sherlock with impatient petulance.

"Go ahead…" She replied, stepping to the side and freeing the entrance to the reception door. Seemingly Sherlock didn't feel the need to dwell upon the altercation between Donovan and himself because as he began to ascend the stairs his eyes had retained the dreamy quality that was common when he was in deep thought. John followed; feeling slightly like he was a tag-along puppet, there for no other reason than to marvel at Sherlock's revelation, whenever it came.

The office where Mr. Milner had been murdered had been cordoned off and was shrouded in darkness; Sherlock disregarded the police tape and turned the light on. He then proceeded to stand, stock still, his eyes darting from object to object throughout the room, for what felt like an exceedingly long time. John leant against the door frame, not completely sure of the complete relevance of this return visit to the office, and feeling rather scathing as to whether it would genuinely uncover any fresh evidence with the case.

"Oh John, you ingratiate me with your gift for silence." Sherlock broke the vacuum of noise that had settled between them, John wasn't quite sure whether Sherlock was being completely serious about this, so remained motionless waiting for Sherlock's next comment. "It is fantastic to have someone to spar with verbally when my mind takes that turn, but to also have someone who knows what silence can mean to the filtration of thoughts in my mind is unequivocally incomparable." Sherlock had moved to the desk and, very methodically, begun to lift items from their place and replace them a moment later; he left John no time to take in his previous statement, continuing in some kind of linear progression within his own mind. "Where would you hide it? Where would you put something if you knew you were dying, but wanted someone to find it?" His exasperation was evident as he picked up the inbox tray and then dropped it back onto the desk. "Think!" He exclaimed, more for his own benefit than for John's. "He was clever…"

"Filing cabinets?" John suggested rather meekly, Sherlock had spun round to face the said cabinets, but he was already shaking his head at the suggestion.

"No, he died in his chair, sat upright. If he had gotten up to hide whatever he had been writing on, then I would have expected to find him lying in the middle of the floor – it takes enormous physical strength to be able to resist a high dosage of morphine. No, if he got up under the influence of the drug he wouldn't have made it back to his chair." John moved from leaning against the door frame round until he was standing in front of the desk; with a certain amount of reluctance he sat down in the chair which had once belonged to the dead man.

Although Sherlock had already conducted his own methodic search of the desk, sometimes the things that were the most obvious to other people bypassed over his head. It had been a little while since John had sat behind a desk, like the one in the GP surgery at which he was occasionally a locum. He tried to put his head into the position that Mr. Milner would have been in; probably understanding that he was dying, needing somewhere to hide a message, but not being able to leave the chair that he was sat on. Almost automatically John stretched out his hand to pull open the drawer located underneath the main body of the computer; it was in such close proximity that he wouldn't have to move in the chair at all. The drawer was locked.

"Sherlock?" John started, giving the drawer an extra tug; Sherlock took a few moments to bring his mind back from wherever it had been dwelling. "This is locked." John indicated towards the drawer, within an instant the light had rekindled in Sherlock's eyes.

"Brilliant!" He exclaimed, then swept from the room leaving John still seated in the chair at the desk, slightly bemused. Within a minute he had rushed back into the office with a set of keys.

"How – how did you get those?" John questioned with some suspicion.

"Oh these?" He jangled the keys. "There's a cleaner along the other end of the corridor – cleaners always have master keys." He stated.

"How did you not think of the drawer?" John asked, feeling rather amused at Sherlock's oversight.

"Well I did consider it – but I thought he might conceal it somewhere more difficult to get into… although if the message is encrypted like the others are then it probably wouldn't require to be hidden well… most people would just view it as rubbish, as just a set of numbers with no important meaning." Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, slotting the master key into the lock and turning it round. The lock clicked at the drawer almost burst open – it was full to the brim with files of cases, with various different names assigned to them.

"Sherlock, these are kids' case files – they're confidential, we can't look through them." John said, but Sherlock was clearly not listening and was already pulling out all of the files and dropping them unceremoniously onto the floor.

"It's not as though we're looking for any personal information." Sherlock screwed his face up as though that was the last thing that he could possibly care about. "I have a brother who practically is the British Government, do you not think that if I wanted to snoop through kids personal files I could do it without breaking into an office and getting the paper files…?" That was true, John thought; Mycroft did seem to be able to access pretty much anything he wanted to get.

The idea of the drawer turned out to be correct, however, as when Sherlock flicked through the second file from the top, a crumpled sheet of notepaper fell out and fluttered to the floor. He stooped to retrieve it and instantly saw the distinctive lines of digits running along the lines. John saw Sherlock's eyes scanning the digits so quickly that his pupils became a blur as they moved.

"This is it – this is what we were looking for." Sherlock nodded, he thrust the rest of the files back into the drawer and placed the sheet of notepaper into his inside coat pocket. "Come on John, there's nothing else that we'll find here – we'd be best back at the flat…"

"Alright." John agreed, following Sherlock out of the office and turning the light out behind them.

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><p><strong>AN: I hope you enjoyed that- I certainly loved writing it! I'd be grateful at receiving any advice or constructive criticism for how I can make it better- so if you have any, drop me a message or a review! Thanks :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John H. Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are the intellectual copyright of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and I hold no claim upon them.**

**A/N: This story, although set in the modern 21st Century, is highly influenced by the structure of the original stories about Sherlock Holmes.**  
><strong>I'm highly enjoying writing this- and I hope anyone who reads it will highly enjoy it too!<strong>  
><strong>Rated T, but this may move up to M as events unfold later on. Enjoy! :)<strong>

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><p>"Hey freak!" Sergeant Donovan's voice called from the door of the building just as John and Sherlock were walking away; Sherlock paused somewhat reluctantly. "Lestrade is looking for you, he said something about a development."<p>

"We'll be back at the flat if he wants to speak with us." Sherlock replied curtly, and turned to continue making his way back to the flat.

"A development?" John questioned, walking quickly to keep up with Sherlock's swift pace.

"Nothing of real importance, I doubt." Sherlock replied. "We'll find out when we're back at the flat probably." Sherlock was drawing out a packet of cigarettes, extracted one and placed it between his lips. John scowled as Sherlock sparked up his cigarette, but he had made his medical opinions and remonstrations about this habit of Sherlock's known, but he remained ambivalent to them all. "This is a rather strange case John…" He stated, blowing out a stream of smoke as he spoke. "There seems to be several different motives and entwinements, it's more messy than Lestrade reckons and than I had initially envisaged."

"How?" John asked, "I thought you said it would be fairly straight forwards once you found the last message" Sherlock had shoved one hand deep into his trouser pocket and the other hand was holding his cigarette.

"Yes, the code should be easy enough to crack; we'll find out who is responsible, not just for Mr. Milner's death, but who is tied up with those children who have fallen off the radar." Sherlock answered. "I'm rather surprised that dear Mycroft hasn't had a hand in this investigation… he would have had this sorted out in an instant." The last statement wasn't spoken in an entirely enthusiastic manner, but Sherlock had alluded in the past that Mycroft did possess an amount of talent in the science of observation and deduction; he had a higher natural portion of the talent that Sherlock made his living by.

"Then why wouldn't they?" John asked, Sherlock tutted.

"Mycroft has ample mental process for a case like this, but he has absolutely no gumption or energy to prove his observations are correct." Sherlock muttered, taking another drag of his cigarette dropping it onto the ground and stubbing it out with his foot. "It seems that this used to be a straight forwards case and it's been made complicated by everyone else and false loyalties and alliances arranged by the members of the department. So now everyone is under the spotlight, anyone could be covering for someone else, and anyone else could be trying to find out what they're doing – I think Mr. Milner was in the latter category, along with Miss. Drylie." For the next few streets John and Sherlock walked in mutual silence, until Sherlock drew out another cigarette and sparked it up, creating a tiny glow of orange that hovered a few inches from the parts of his face that were being illuminated by the streetlights.

"Don't you have any patches?" John voiced in slight annoyance, beginning to suspect that he was in for a night of a chain smoking Sherlock.

"Not with me, and they wouldn't be quick enough – I need mental stimulation, the patches are good for figuring out difficult problems, but not much use when connecting up ideas in my head." Sherlock retaliated, John rolled his eyes and sighed heavily.

Lestrade was already waiting at the flat when John and Sherlock arrived back; he was standing in their sitting room, tapping his foot on the floor boards with an air of impatience. His face was contorted into an expression of grim significance – clearly the new development was weighing on his mind.

"Evening." John greeted Lestrade cordially, as Sherlock breezed past them both and dropped into his armchair.

"You've been waiting a while." Sherlock commented. "This new development must be very important for you to hang around for three quarters of an hour." Lestrade's face tightened for a second, and then relaxed, putting down this knowledge of his time of arrival to Sherlock's powers of observation; but Lestrade didn't seem to be in the mood for Sherlock's quirks today.

"We found a body." He said rather matter-of-factly, Sherlock's disposition changed so rapidly that John hardly had the chance to blink. Sherlock's head had repositioned, the back of his neck lengthening and his chin down towards his chest, he had placed the tips of his fingers together and rested them with his index finger just underneath the tip of his nose, but where the change was most noticeable was his eyes – where there had been swirling dark grey misty there was now sparkling specks of light flecked through the pupils.

"A body?" John questioned, both bemused and shocked. "Who's body?"

"One of the missing children." Sherlock interrupted before Lestrade could speak.

"How did you know that?" Lestrade gaped at Sherlock.

"Well, wasn't too difficult to come to – Donovan said you had a development for us, not something new, something related to this case. Your demeanour smacks that it wasn't something you expected; your face is haggard, frim – one of those expressions usually attributed to something being vulgar. The moment you said you'd 'found a body' indicated that it wasn't any of the colleagues – if it had been one of them you would have said one had been murdered… but you didn't, so not one of the colleagues, but still related to this case – a development that might lead us somewhere. Only one valid reasoned conclusion for a development and a body – you've found one of the missing children."

"See, when he says it like that it sounds so…" Lestrade had turned to John, a slightly exasperated look on his face.

"Simple?" John filled in the missing word from Lestrade's sentence.

"Yes!" Lestrade exclaimed, Sherlock was rolling his eyes at this conversation.

"That's because it _is _simple – but only if you reason with the facts and evidence, which unfortunately the two of you appear incapable of doing." Sherlock mused. "This body… do you know who it is?"

"Yes." Lestrade answered after a moment's pause where he clearly had to bring his mind back to the matter in hand. "The boy's brother has given us a positive ID for the body: Adam McLachan, fifteen years old, his brothers and him have been in the care system half their lives. They were split up from each other about two years ago, but they had regular contact through arranged visits, emails, that sort of thing, until Adam dropped off the radar at the end of December."

"December? That's almost five months ago!" John commented, "How come the investigation was only set up a month ago?"

"These kids are prone to becoming runaways, especially as they got closer to leaving the system when they turn sixteen." Lestrade shrugged, "It was thought they were all running away – it wasn't until someone looked into the case by accident and noticed they all went missing on the same date. All from three secure homes under the care of the local authorities, all from homes within ten miles of one another, but none of them having had any known contact with the others who'd gone missing."

"So it only got flagged when someone checked up on it? That's not a very good system, is it?" John retorted, Lestrade shrugged.

"I'm guessing that's why the investigation was launched, someone high up in government got involved and they're planning some big overhaul apparently."

"Back to the dead kid – he'd been missing since December, yet on the day where someone in the department was killed, his body was found also…" Sherlock returned the conversation to the relevant topic. "_How _was he found?"

"In Harrow, apparently some old tramp is a regular for rummaging around in the bins near the restaurants and he found the body…" Lestrade replied, but Sherlock cut him off impatiently.

"Not where, _how?_ In what state was he found?" Sherlock emphasized, throwing out his hands in a gesture of exasperation. "How was his body found? He went missing four months ago, but I doubt his body's been in that bin since then! So he's either been killed months ago, stored for some reason and then dumped in those bins, _or_ he was killed recently. So where has he been in the time that has elapsed? And why has he only just been dumped – is it because whoever had him was getting nervous about the whole investigation finding them out?" Sherlock was ranting, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "Your forensic team must have had time to examine the body by now."

"Yes; the boy was killed recently – within the past two days. It is a strange killing, he hadn't just been stabbed or shot, like would be the way to get rid of him. No, he was dead, but all of his internal organs had been removed. Every single one – even his eyes, they were all gone. But what's even more curious is that he had been stitched back up again, like it was done through some sort of surgical procedure." Lestrade answered eventually.

"I thought as much." Sherlock muttered, Lestrade and John ogled at him for a moment.

"Removed all of his organs? How could you have thought?" John ejaculated, staring aghast at Sherlock.

"All of his organs have been harvested, probably to be sold or used for some other similar purpose." Sherlock mused, "A kidney can raise up to £3,000 depending on where it's sold… I believe that if you go as far as China then you can get in excess of $16,000. But China would be impractical, they couldn't ensure an organ would still be healthy enough to transplant if they had to transport it all the way to China." John and Lestrade were still dumbfounded at the words that were coming out of Sherlock's mouth.

"Lestrade, have you informed anyone about finding the body, aside from the boy's brother?"

"The brother's foster family know of course, we went straight to them when we suspected who it was."

"What about within the social work department?" Sherlock inquired.

"We spoke to Mr. Ewans, he was the one who found the address of the family that the brother is with." Lestrade said.

"Just Mr. Ewans?"

"Yes." Lestrade retorted in some annoyance.

"Good, I believe we can entrust Mr. Ewans to be discreet… but I must ask that you tell no one else. No one, not any of the other social workers, not the press, or anyone." Sherlock ordered. "We are very close on the trail of the perpetrators of Mr. Milner's murder, and of the disappearance of these children. I am under the impression that they will be planning to flee, but they will want to wait until they believe suspicion has passed _unless _they think that we're onto them. If they're disturbed then they'll act quicker, they'll run… so they must not know that we have found this boy."

"I am sure that can be done, but we can't guarantee that they can all be kept in the dark forever…" Lestrade told him honestly, "How long do you think it will be until you know who we should be going after?" Lestrade's usual manner of slight annoyance had dropped completely, he seemed to have bowed to the pressure and acknowledged that in this case, like so many others before them, that Sherlock had the upper hand.

"You will have the answer tomorrow." Sherlock replied curtly.

"Alright… I can guarantee until tomorrow." Lestrade agreed. "I'll come back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow afternoon would be best." Sherlock told him with an air of importance; Lestrade turned around rolling his eyes at the way Sherlock had assumed himself superior.

"Goodnight Dr. Watson." Lestrade nodded in farewell to John.

"Night Lestrade." John replied, and Lestrade left the flat of his own accord. There was a silence in the room, all expect the tapping of Sherlock's foot upon the floor board; John made his way into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. After a long pause John spoke: "Do you really think we'll have the answer to the case tomorrow?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered shortly. "I'm positive to it. I think I might be onto the solution already, I just need confirmation."

"And how do you expect to get that confirmation?" John pressed for any more information.

"I already have the confirmation; I just need to decode it…" Sherlock spoke lightly, drawing his phone out of his pocket.

Sherlock settled himself down at the desk, shoving discarded piles of paper out of his way and placing his mobile phone, the note that they had retrieved from the office on the clear bit of the table top. John had watched him from the kitchen while trying to seek out something to eat; Sherlock's working habits could definitely be peculiar to say the least. His mental powers of reasoning were so analytically precise and meticulously ordered, but when it came to the physical manifestation he was so unbelievably untidy. John watched in amazement as Sherlock rooted around, searching for paper and a pen so he could confirm the theory that was racing around in the neural pathways of his brain. John made cups of tea, one for himself and one for Sherlock, placing Sherlock's right in front of him on the desk and then sat down in the armchair that he preferred. For another quarter of an hour John sat in silence, watching Sherlock, whose lips were moving but making no sound as he ran his eyes along line after line of digits. The pen in his hand scribbling frantically, occasionally crossing some things out violently. After that time had passed a weight had settled upon John, his eyelids were heavy and his mind buzzing from the fullness of the day that had passed – it didn't look like Sherlock would be completed any time soon, and in any case, it didn't look like he was tired at all. Leaving Sherlock, thin shoulders curved over the desk and his brows furrowed into an intense look of concentration, John decided that it was time to retire and get some sleep. For if Sherlock was correct and they were hot on the trail of the perpetrators of the crime then the next day was going to be a busy one indeed… and Sherlock was seldom wrong about these cases.

When John surfaced at 8 o'clock in the morning it did not appear that Sherlock had moved at all. He was still sat at the table, no longer hunched over the paper, but lounging back in his chair with his legs stretched out in front of him. John was positive that his friend had had no sleep, the dark lines under his eyes indicated this, but his eyes were sparkling with a vitality that seemed to be even brighter because of this absence of rest.

"Good morning John!" His tone was light and airy; John shuffled into the kitchen and turned the kettle on, still slightly sleepy having just awoken. "Good idea – I'll have a cup too. We're going to have a long day ahead of us!" Sherlock called, John scowled a little as he began to make himself and Sherlock tea.

"Had a productive night then?" HE asked, carrying the two mugs through into the sitting room.

"Very productive. I now have the names of those who we are going to have arrested later on today, and I am convinced also of their motives." Sherlock answered.

"How have you got that?" John asked incredulously.

"Terrence Milner left them for us, very clearly." Sherlock patted the sheets of paper on the table in front of them. "Ah, he was ever so clever… Lestrade would have done well if he had noticed and acknowledged that fact." John carried the two cups of tea over to the untidy table that Sherlock had been working on and laid it down right in front of Sherlock, then picked up the bits of paper that Sherlock had scrawled on while decoding. Glancing down the first sheet he noticed that some of the messages were fully coherent sentences, others were just phrases or words; the first message was a phrase:

_'TW184UQ; 51.436117, -0. 509102.'_

"Is that?" John started suddenly, but then his eyes fell on the line of explanation that Sherlock had written underneath: 'Renshaw Industrial Estate, Millmead Road, Staines. Secure location – rented out in October, name of lease holder unknown.'

"The postcode?" Sherlock asked lazily, taking a sip from his cup of tea. "The numbers are the longitude and latitude of a warehouse in the industrial estate – it's the only one still in use, the rest have been decommissioned because they're unsafe to work in."

"And you think…"

"That's where they've been keeping the children who have gone missing – seems about logical given the rest of the messages." Sherlock nodded, John's eyes flickered back to the rest of the translated messages:

_'Louisa Stacks, Adam McLachan, Darren Hayworth, Kayleigh Lansford, Samantha Carstairs, Benjamin McPherson.'_ Those were the names of the six children who had gone missing – just their names constituted one whole message.

_'6__th__ January; requirement of one – disposal will be required. Transfer time to be confirmed.'_

"You should read through all of those notes, it should make things clearer." Sherlock commented, standing up from his chair and stretching. "And if you'll excuse me I'm going to have a shower before Lestrade appears." John sat down in his armchair with the papers and began to study them – some of them were very similar to the ones he had previously red, some were different:

_'Attainment of necessary medications; transfer complete – payment imminent.'_

_'Suspicions aroused slightly, not by ourselves but by the disappearance of those whom we are holding. Will try to pacify suspicions, but not sure how long I will be able to manage. Find out how long the other 3 will have to be held.'_

_'13__th__ February; requirement of one – disposal will be required. Transfer time to be confirmed, last payment accepted. Not sure how much longer will need to keep the final two for, depends upon demand. Have suspicions disappeared?'_

_'Suspicions still present – thinking they may be taken higher than we can deal with. Need to dispatch of the last 2 asap if we want to evade all suspicion if someone comes sniffing. Requirement of more sedation for the boy; seems to be more perceptive.'_

John stopped reading at this point – he was confused slightly, and rubbed his eyes. These messages seemed to be the interaction between two people involved in some kind of illegal deed, but they were still very cryptic even after having been decoded by Sherlock. John couldn't understand how Sherlock had gotten the names of the culprits from these messages, so he continued to read:

_'SOMEONE knows. Almost certain of this fact, it has to be someone within the department. New HoD seems like an alright person – heard him state that there are glitches within the system all the time and that he doesn't suspect any foul play. He thinks that the 6 are runaways and will turn up eventually – looks promising.'_

_'Keep aware of those in the department though, think you might be right that someone knows. Have a suspicion as to whom, but can't be certain.'_

It was two people within the department that were conversing – or it could be one with a split personality, the thought flashed through John's medically trained mind – but two people seemed the more obvious possibility, and John guessed that this was the point that Mr. Milner had entered the conversation.;

_'Know who in the department suspects us – something needs to be done about it. Need to be silenced?'_

_'Can obtain 2CH4 + 2NH3 + 3O2 - 2HCN + 6H20. Will use this.' _John stared at the chemical equation almost in disbelief, it was most certainly the same one that Sherlock had figured out himself.

_'Yes, sounds like a good plan. I will do something also, should be able to silence him. Last payment should be wired shortly and we'll be able to get away asap – then we won't have to bother with '_

The last message that Sherlock had transcribed was the shortest of the lot, it simply stated: '_'_

John laid down the papers on the small coffee table and sat considering all that he had read until Sherlock, fresh out of the shower with clean clothes and wet hair, re-entered the room

"So…" He started. "Have you read through the message?"

"Of course." John replied.

"So you'll agree that I was right about these children being held and then their body parts being sold?" He continued.

"Well… it doesn't say that exactly, but I can see where the inference comes from." John nodded. "But how do you know who it is? I couldn't see any way in which you could find out who the senders of these messages are."

"Ah, well, that is from the last message; the note we found in Mr. Milner's office. But I'd rather keep that private for just a little longer, just until we are in a position that we can do something about it." Sherlock stated, standing by the window and staring out into the street which was busy with rain spattered commuters.

"But why would anyone want to do anything like this?" John exclaimed. "Selling body parts? Of children! It's hideous, grotesque!"

"And earns a lot of money." Sherlock finished calmly. "The money has a lot to do with this case… so does the incidence of love."

"Love?" John questioned surprised.

"Yes John, love." Sherlock turned to face John, his hands buried deep into his trouser pockets. "I will be greatly mistaken if love does not lie at the very bottom of this case." This was one of these strange statements that Sherlock sometimes made that he wouldn't endeavour to explain until he felt the moment was right.

"Lestrade will be here soon." Sherlock stated suddenly.

"You said he shouldn't come until the afternoon." John said.

"Yes, but he'll come early." Sherlock shrugged. "He wants to get this case wrapped up as soon as he possibly can. I can't blame him, it's not a nice case… interesting, but not nice."

Sherlock was correct in saying that Lestrade would come early; just before ten there was a ring at the bell and Lestrade came up the stairs into the sitting room a few moments later.

"Morning Lestrade – eager as ever I see?" Sherlock greeted the Inspector brightly; next to Sherlock, Lestrade looked very tired and worn – he surveyed Sherlock with a distinct look of disdain. "Did Donovan not want to come into the freak den?"

"She's waiting in the car, I told her that I won't be long." He replied; Sherlock let out a bark of laughter, after which a long silence ensued. After what felt like several minutes Lestrade burst out with: "Well?"

"Well what?" Sherlock spoke seriously, but John could see the expression in Sherlock's eyes that showed he was enjoying this very much.

"Last night you said you'd have this whole thing figured out by today." Lestrade said with a bite of impatience. "Well? Have you got it all figured out?"

"Oh yes." Sherlock answered lazily. "Mr. Milner left us ample evidence to wrap everything up."

"Mr. Milner? The dead man?" Lestrade looked towards John, baffled; John nodded. "How has he left us evidence?"

"Because he was a very clever man." Lestrade sighed, there was no use trying to puzzle out Sherlock's cryptic riddles, he would reveal the answer when he felt the time was correct.

"Alright. Are you ready to come then?" He asked.

"You go on, John and I will follow." Sherlock confirmed. "And make sure you have two sets of handcuffs with you!" He added as Lestrade left, then Sherlock turned dramatically to John. "Come on John! Let's go – we don't want to keep Lestrade and Donovan waiting."

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><p><strong>AN: I hope you enjoyed that chapter! :D I'd be grateful at receiving any advice or constructive criticism for how I can make it better- so if you have any, drop me a message or a review! Thanks :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John H. Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are the intellectual copyright of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and I hold no claim upon them.**

**A/N: This story, although set in the modern 21st Century, is highly influenced by the structure of the original stories about Sherlock Holmes.**  
><strong>I'm highly enjoying writing this- and I hope anyone who reads it will highly enjoy it too!<strong>  
><strong>Rated T. Enjoy! :)<br>Also- within this chapter there is a fair amount of artistic license. As a hearing aid wearer myself I know some of what I have written is correct- but maybe not to the lengths that it is stretched! :)**

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><p>By the time the cab that they were passengers in reached the offices that was their destination, John felt about ready to strangle Sherlock. He was full of vigour about the end of this case drawing near, but to John that just highlighted that Sherlock would become thoroughly bored once they were finished this afternoon. The weather outside was thoroughly miserable, John couldn't remember the last time it had rained this hard for this long – as much as he knew London was still under drought warnings! The rain had started late the night before, and since then the downpour had been consistent. The rain seemed to manufacture a very grim mood within everyone, there was just something incredibly depressing about grey skies. Sherlock remained blissfully ambivalent to the weather related mood regulation that everyone else seemed to suffer from. There was a distinct spring in Sherlock's step, John noticed, as they entered the building reception and headed towards the department. At the double doors which acted as an entrance to the department, Lestrade and Donovan were hovering like two overgrown teenagers in uniforms, clearly talking about the case about to be solved.<p>

"Lestrade." Sherlock started commandingly, "I need you to separate Mr. Read and Miss. Riggans into conference room one, keep Mr. Ewans in his office, and put everyone else into conference room two, but accompany each one of them there – don't let any of them out of your sight until they're in the conference rooms. Mr. Ewans will be alright on his own, just tell him to stay put. Once you've done that I'll speak to people." Sherlock waited to see that Lestrade and Donovan had retained all that information, then withdrew back, out of the sight lines of the doors.

"What are you doing?" John asked, watching Sherlock's attempt to hover surreptitiously.

"Move back John." He commanded and John obeyed, moving so he was positioned just behind Sherlock's shoulder. "I want them all to be divided into the rooms I said without seeing us."

The process of collecting and escorting each member of the department individually took just under five minutes, then Lestrade and Donovan returned to the area of the corridor that John and Sherlock were still standing.

"Right, that's them divided into the rooms you requested." Lestrade told them, watching Sherlock for any indication of what he was about to do next.

"I need one of you to stay in the room with Mr. Read and Miss. Riggans, just keep an eye on them." Sherlock answered.

"Donovan, you go and stay in the room with them until we come." Lestrade said to her, she nodded in acknowledgement.

"Oh, don't speak to them." Sherlock warned her as she began to move to go to the room, she didn't reply or make any sign, but there was no possible chance that she hadn't heard him. Once she had disappeared into the room Sherlock bristled into action, moving swiftly through the double doors.

"We need to speak to Mr. Ewans before we confront Mr. Read and Miss. Riggans." He informed Lestrade, heading towards the Head of Department's office. At the door to Mr. Ewans' office John paused infinitesimally, unsure of whether he should accompany Lestrade and Sherlock into the office, but one glance from Sherlock indicated that he wanted John to come.

"Mr. Ewans?" Sherlock acquisitioned as he opened the door to the office; the tall man nodded, flicking away the fringe of the mop of hair out of his eyes. "I'm Sherlock Holmes; you spoke to Dr. Watson yesterday." Sherlock's tone was serious – gone was the childlike excitement at the cessation of this case – this was business.

"Are you a police officer?" Mr. Ewans asked.

"Mr. Holmes is working alongside the police on this case." Lestrade interrupted shooting Sherlock a warning look at the same time.

"Yes – I believe you keep files on the members of staff who work in the department?" Sherlock stated this rather than questioned.

"Yes, they're all electronic files on the computer." Mr. Ewans replied.

"I need you to open Mr. Read and Miss. Riggans' files." Sherlock said bluntly; it looked like Mr. Ewans was about to argue for the briefest of moments, but he seemed to decide that it wouldn't be the best idea with a police officer in the room. He sat down at his desk and began to type furiously at his keyboard, his face drawn into an expression of sullen defiance as he located and opened the files.

"There." He projectured, standing up from his computer chair in an offer to Sherlock. Sherlock rounded the edge of the desk but remained standing, leaning towards the computer, shoulders hunched with his hand on the mouse.

"I have a suspicion…" Sherlock was muttering to himself very quietly, John was sure that only he, near to the desk, could hear him. "Ah-ha!" He ejaculated suddenly, making Mr. Ewans jump and Lestrade blink startled. "Just as I thought – Miss. Riggans has two undergraduate degrees!" Sherlock straightened up, a faraway look in his eyes.

"What difference does that make?" John asked quietly knowing that this meant something, but not connecting what it actually meant; Lestrade and Mr. Ewans were both looking at Sherlock as though he was mad.

"I could have told you that." Mr. Ewans stated huskily, crossing his arms across his chest. "She did a medical degree, but when she was on a paediatric rotation of her course she decided that she didn't want to be a medic. She finished the Bachelor of Science and went straight back to do a Masters in Social Work."

"She told you that?" Sherlock asked, John was concerned to hear the touch of incredulous surprise present in Sherlock's voice; Mr. Ewans was nodding. "Well, why didn't you tell John that!" Sherlock burst out frustrated. "That would have made things so much easier – we knew we were looking for someone with medical or chemical knowledge the moment we saw Mr. Milner's body, if you had told us that yesterday we could have arrested her on the spot!" Sherlock had drawn up to his full height, rivalling that of Mr. Ewans.

"A-Abigail?" He stammered, his face contorted into a paroxysm of horror and disbelief. "You think Abigail killed Terri?" He exclaimed outlandishly, losing all of his mastered dignity of his position.

"I don't _think_, I have the evidence to prove that Miss. Riggans and Mr. Read are responsible for these children going missing, and for the death of Mr. Milner." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders lazily, Mr. Ewans' eyes were so wide that it looked like they may pop out of their cavities in his skull, he raised a shaking hand to his forehead as he attempted to process the information that Sherlock had just presented in such a nonchalant manner. Lestrade also seemed to be staring at Sherlock with wide-eyed alertness, as though he was trying to follow every minute detail. "Which office is Mr. Reads'?" Sherlock ignored Lestrade and Mr. Ewans as they mentally flailed with the knowledge that they were out of their depth in this situation.

"Uh… the one to the right of Terri's." Mr. Ewans replied shakily. Sherlock was staring at him with such tenacity that John was surprised that it didn't burn, and he knew the reason why – Mr. Ewans' reaction, one of confusion and obvious disturbment, had displayed itself in the manifestation of _emotions_, the one thing that Sherlock failed to see the purpose of.

"And Miss. Riggans' office?"

"It's the third door on the opposite side of the corridor." He responded.

"A little to the left across from what used to be Mr. Milner's office?" Sherlock pressed, Mr. Ewans nodded once more. "Thank you." His final statement was curt – that was him finished with this interview and he moved towards the door; John and Lestrade taking a few more moments to move into action and follow him. Sherlock went directly to Mr. Read's office and began to riffle, unconcernedly, through the man's case.

"Sherlock!" John began to remonstrate as Sherlock pulled out papers and files and dumped them onto the desktop, but Sherlock replied with a scathing sort of hiss as he appeared to find what he was looking for. His hands moved so fast on the object, shoving it inside his coat pocket, that neither John nor Lestrade got the chance to see what it was.

"It will become apparent in a moment." Sherlock said, leaving the files and papers that he had pulled out of the case strewn across the man's desk. "Got your handcuffs ready Lestrade?" Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile as he passed Lestrade.

"Stop messing about Sherlock, I entertain you with a lot of things, so stop playing about." Lestrade ordered briskly, the frustration ringing through his voice.

"Of course. You will allow me time to question them, yes?" It wasn't even a request from Sherlock, Lestrade didn't have a choice. "I doubt that they're going to be open and tell us everything, but I think I've almost got the story straight – hopefully they'll fill out the bits that I'm unclear about."

"Should I be recording this interview?" Lestrade inquired.

"That would be clever of you." Sherlock murmured under his breath. "Whatever you do, let _me_ do the talking. When I'm finished you can do what you like."

Upon entering the small conference room which had Sergeant Donovan, Miss. Riggans and Mr. Read as occupants; it was instantly noticeable that the two prisoners being held in the room had been trying to communicate with each other through looks alone. Mr. Read was attempting to hide the disposition of nerves that he was currently feeling, but his eyes gave him away – they had a strange curious peturbment within them, that looked like a young child who had just been caught with their hand in a biscuit tin. He was a handsome young man, powerfully built; he looked like he could be an intimidating presence, but even John couldn't miss the subservient glances he was throwing at the woman, she couldn't have been any older than thirty-five, if that; her face was completely impassive to the situation that was going on around her.

Sherlock seemed to be calculating as he positioned himself across from where the two captors were sitting, almost leaning on the wall; letting the silence draw on for longer and longer – John wondered whether he was trying to force one of them to break and start speaking. Whether he had been planning that or not, it was the eventual result:

"Why have you got us in here?" Miss. Riggans asked, her low voice was calm and smooth – like this was a normal everyday situation.

"You know the reason why, Miss. Riggans." Sherlock responded in an equally placid tone, his lip twitching was the only sign that he was enjoying what was going on.

"I am very sure I don't!" She retorted quickly, one of her eyebrows cocked high up on her forehead. "If you're not going to arrest us then will you let us leave?"

"I just want to ask you a few questions." Sherlock was smiling cheerily at the two of them. "No harm in a few questions, is there?" John marvelled inwardly at Sherlock's ability to change his entire personality and disposition in an instant; Miss. Riggans shifted slightly in her chair, but didn't break eye contact with Sherlock. John observed that Mr. Read's eyes were flickering back and forth between Sherlock and his companion, he seemed to be much more disturbed by the current happenings.

"I suppose not." She nodded in agreement and there came a pause in which Sherlock eyed up the two people with an unabjected face, his features blank and unreadable.

"Milkovich Yasmina." Sherlock stated very abruptly; Lestrade and John's heads both whipped round to look at the detective, both instantly thinking that the man with them was clearly mad. But as they focused their attention upon Sherlock, they missed the one thing that was Sherlock's desired reaction – Miss. Riggans had no reaction to this bizarre outburst made my Sherlock, but that couldn't be said for Mr. Read. His eyes had widened momentarily with a look that could only be described as primal fear, the muscles in his jaws had tensed as his teeth ground together, and his hands had tightened convulsively on one another in a spasm of horror; all of these actions occurred unconsciously so that Mr. Read was not even fully aware that he had given away a guilty reaction in the space of a few seconds. Again it was Miss. Riggans who answered to Sherlock's pronouncements; "Who is that?"

"You've never heard that name before?" Sherlock didn't let any colour touch his voice, even though it was no doubt that something had just been clarified in his mind. "He has certainly heard of you, he has recently sent the two of you large sums of money."

"I think you must be mistaken, I've never heard that name before, have you Peter?" John noticed that Lestrade was looking to his left – and noted that a dictaphone was placed at the side of his chair, no doubt capturing every verbal interaction that was going on within the room.

"No." He shook his head, but his voice didn't portray confidence. There was another long pause, Sherlock's brows had knit together and his lips were pursed, the deep concentrative state was emanating from him in waves.

"How long have you been sleeping together?" Sherlock eventually propositioned. "I'd hazard my guess at almost three years." The two of them exchanged glances, it seemed to be becoming plain that what they believed were their private secrets were no longer secret or private.

"Well, that we couldn't expect to stay hidden forever." Mr. Read eventually spoke before his companion. "Just under three years, yes." Miss. Riggans looked distinctly disgruntled at this statement.

"And you've been a widower for eighteen months, how very convenient." Sherlock mused with a twitch of his lips again. "How did your wife die? Fell down the stairs and hit her head, yes?" Mr. Read shifted in his seat, looking more and more openly guilty.

"Y-Yes." He replied.

"This is ridiculous." Miss. Riggans exclaimed suddenly, "Either arrest us, or let us go – these questions having nothing to do with the things that have happened in the past day!"

"That is where you are incorrect, and you know that." Sherlock's eyes were sparkling. "You and Mr. Read were having an affair, until Mr. Read's wife found out… she then conveniently had an accident in which she died, I've read the coroner's report – there was some question about whether the death was an accident. But you could answer those questions for us, couldn't you?" Sherlock was leaning towards the desk now. "You hired someone professional, someone to get rid of her in a way that would be deemed as an accident – which is not an impossible act, someone with a small amount of capability and intelligence could do so very easily." Mr. Read's mouth was hanging open as he stared at Sherlock. "It wasn't a problem, it wasn't questioned at the time, and the two of you thought you had gotten away with it completely blameless… until November, when the man who you hired to kill your wife started making demands upon you… how much money did he want? More than the salary of a social worker, no doubt? So you needed a way to get the money to stop him from revealing your secret and the both of you being charged with conspiracy and accessory to murder…"

"I want a lawyer." Miss. Riggans interrupted suddenly, Sherlock's left eyebrow raised in suspicion.

"I'm correct in my observations then…" He said simply, taking her abrupt demand as evidence of confirmation. "You needed money to pay this man off, and then to succeed in getting away so that you could start afresh from any future demands that this man may lay in front of you." Mr. Read seemed to be floundering under the pressure that Sherlock was placing on him; Lestrade, however, wasn't looking as collected as would be expected of the police officer in charge, he made a tiny jerk of the head where Sherlock had paused, indicating that he wanted to speak to Sherlock outside the room where the prisoners couldn't hear them. Sherlock obliged to this sign, and John also followed, allowing Lestrade to draw the door close with a click making sure that the incumbents of the room would not be able to hear anything.

"I'm giving you a reasonable amount of license here Sherlock, will you stop playing about and get to the point?" Lestrade reprimanded, although lightly. "She's requesting a lawyer, and legally I'm required to comply with that request."

"You haven't arrested her formally – we're just informally questioning them; legally you have no obligation." Sherlock responded instantly. "It was necessary to establish some points of the case before I could confidently instruct you to arrest them!" Sherlock had been bristled by the interruption to his flow of thoughts.

"Alright, just – be quick about it will you?" He said shrewdly.

"When we enter the room again arrest them, cuff them and then I'll speak to them again; they won't be required to answer questions, I'll just put the situation to them and you'll have the perfect evidence for the jury." Sherlock stated. "Just do it, then let me speak and _don't _interrupt me," Lestrade nodded, John was glancing between the two of them, he could hardly comprehend how Sherlock had been able to slot together all the fragmented pieces of the puzzle into the completed, closed case.

Upon re-entering the room, Lestrade began to give the regulation statement that he had to give while making any kind of arrest; the man said nothing, but his features crumpled together, highlighting the weakness of his chin and the lines all around his eyes. Miss. Riggans did nothing to respond at first, her face completely unresponsive; but after a moment she began to speak, loudly and articulating every syllable of her words – clearly with the opinion that the words coming out of Lestrade's mouth were either a joke, or an insult. Finally, when Donovan had handcuffed Mr. Read and Lestrade had managed to place cuffs upon the irate Miss. Riggans, they sat in their chairs rather subdued. Mr. Read seemed to have given up completely and Miss. Riggans was breathing heavily through her nose; Sherlock began.

"Miss. Riggans, you are a medic – you have considerable knowledge of chemicals and medications, of which you've put into use during the capture, imprisonment and eventual dissection of the children who went missing in December, and also in the murder of Mr. Terrence Milner." John flinched slightly at the cold, harsh tone ringing through Sherlock's voice, especially as he uttered the word 'dissection'. "Those skills were not unknown by your colleagues, although none of them would even begin to think that you would use them in such a manner. Mr. Read, whether you love the woman who you have been in collaboration with, or whatever other reasons you have justified your actions with, you understand fully that those emotions are not, and will not be reciprocated… you guess, although you probably tried to suppress, that when this has become boring, that when all your goals have been achieved, that she would have left you. The thrill is entirely in the chase, not in the capture." John frowned, it sounded like Sherlock was describing his own methods of living. "I rarely get to meet a clinical psychopath such as yourself, Miss. Riggans. I have to admit I'm impressed by the operations that you've organised, very clear, very precise – with no room for error or misdeed. Mr. Read is so infatuated with you that you knew he wouldn't betray you, you had no reason for being caught until someone started showing signs of knowing something was going on." Mr. Read had dissolved, he was shaking from head to foot, his face pale and sweat sparkling upon his brow, as though the full enormity of the understanding was beginning to become apparent to him. "You needed money to pay off this man, that I have alluded to before; as a medic you had a fair idea of how much the organs of a body can raise when sold to the right bidder. Milkovich Yasmina was the man that you finally struck the deal with; you might have been exceedingly careful in all of your dealings and activities, but, alas for you, he is not so careful. He is easy to trace and track, and one internet search can give you all the information you would ever need to know about the man, and his involvement in the selling of organs in the Czech Republic. How do you get bodies? Easy when you're looking in the right places – working in the care system you both know all to well that children disappear off the radar frequently, and very rarely they are noticed and followed up. Six children, chosen, no doubt, because of their histories as run aways… the only rash decision made was taking them all away on the same night – you realised in retrospect that it would have been more prudent to your cause for you to take them one at a time, when demand was necessary. The upkeep of six children was rather difficult, even though you kept them chained and sedated until it was necessary to use them." Mr. Read was staring, still trembling, agog at Sherlock, giving clear indication that every word coming out of the detectives' mouth was either the exact happenings or so close to the exact happenings that it was uncanny. "Especially the last boy – Adam McLachan – he was a particular problem, wasn't he? More aware, more astute than any of the others, more difficult to sedate seeing as he had already gone through puberty and had the size and strength of an adult, although somewhat weakened from lack of food. I'm not so clear as to why you kept him until last, unless it being for that reason, that he was bigger, fully developed, his organs could be transplanted into an adult and get you even more money when needed…" Sherlock allowed for a pause, John was sure that he hadn't designed this to force either of the captors into speech, but that was the result.

"How do you-" Mr. Read began, his voice quavering severely, but Miss. Riggans cut in over him.

"You seem to have done your homework as to what we have been doing." She spoke as though she was addressing us on a subject as trivial as the weather, but her face had changed for the first time, her eyebrow inflected slightly and a look of perturbed interest on her face. "May I ask as to _how_ you know so much?"

"Ah, that is not difficult, given the correspondence between yourself, you have practically given yourself away, unknowingly of course. Also the discovery of the body of Adam McLachan last night gave me the final link as to how you were operating, and from there, it is not too difficult to deduce the conditions that the boy had been kept in, and for what reason." Sherlock was beginning to speed up, spitting out each syllable in an excitable effort to get to the next one, and John could tell that her was internally fighting against the urge to break into a grin over the pleasure of confronting these conspirators with their string of deeds. "The two of you have been spending much less time with each other than previous to this whole situation that is clearly obvious and practical in terms of avoiding any suspicions of raising any questions among your colleagues; even out with work you haven't been seeing each other just in case, but you still needed to correspond with each other in a way that couldn't be traced. For that reason you bought two mobile phones, that you used solely for contacting each other and Yasmina; two unregistered pay as you throw phones that you were sure couldn't be traced, or the messages read – and even if they were, somehow, then there was no solid proof for their affiliation to you. So, on the 6th January, 13th February, or whenever you received a requirement for one or two, you were able to forwards it on to Miss. Riggans so that she could prepare the "goods" for delivery." Sherlock had been addressing Mr. Read in a crisp, brisk tone; but Mr. Read seemed to have given in and decided that all was now known, and there was nothing worth hiding – he was nodding at what Sherlock was projecturing to him and his assailent. John moved, noticing Lestrade checking his watch, and being slightly annoyed at the policeman – who apparently thought that Sherlock's methods of recounting the story that was in the centre of this case were too long, even though Sherlock's bursts of speed came at such a quick pace that it was hard to keep up with the speed of which his brain formed sentences. Sherlock seemed to have sensed Lestrade's impatience because he suddenly seemed to take his discourse off in a completely different route. "Mr. Milner was deaf, that much both of you knew having worked with him for two years; but something that neither of you, nor anyone else knew, was just how deaf he was – and how the hearing aids he used aided in him finding out the circumstances of the children going missing. Leading him to suspecting the both of you, and ultimately ending in his death – but he had foreseen that also. He left messages behind in a safe place, in code, because he wanted someone to know what had been going on, and he hoped that someone might have figured out his code."

"What do you mean by a '_code_'!" Miss. Riggans spat furiously. "And how could _anyone _intercept messages without placing a bug on the phones – it's not possible any other way! And neither of these phones have ever been away from our persons, so no bugs – therefore no tracing could have been possible." She spoke with a scathing confidence as though she knew verifiably what she was talking about.

"You know when you hold a mobile phone to a set of speakers and you get that specific feedback noise?" Sherlock began rhetorically, not waiting for any answers. "That feedback noise is actually the message being broken down into binary and then sent on – if you can decode that binary feedback then you can read what the message being sent says." Sherlock gave a brief explanation of a matter that would serve to make the whole case understandable. "Normally you would need to be near a set of speakers, or an electronic receiver to her the amplified binary transmitted – but Mr. Milner's cochlear implant was nothing more than an electronic receiver… it picked up the feedback. To everyone else that noise is a mere annoyance – one of those things you just have to deal with when you live in a technological society… but Mr. Milner had grown up in a decade predating all the technological advances, then figured out what that noise was while a student when mobile phones had become more commonplace. This knowledge was so trite to him that he could understand the binary breakdown as though it was his first language – he had perfected translating it as he heard it. Just like a non-native, fluent German speaker would translate from German to English in their head while holding a conversation. Mr. Milner's office was positioned almost exactly in between the two of yours – so every message you sent each other during the hours of work he picked up on and translated. I think the anomaly with the missing children had been noted by Mr. Milner and that is the reason he began to transcribe messages when he heard something unusual. He then coded them and sent them to someone he knew would keep them safe until he had further evidence to proceed with. He knew that you have begun to suspect someone, and eventually he knew that you knew it was him and he foresaw what the end result was going to be." Sherlock's smugness had been renewed, especially because of the horrified look on Mr. Read's face, and the dawning comprehension that was displaying itself upon Miss. Riggans' features. "He knew that there was a hit being put out on him, so he left a coded message with everything he knew." Sherlock put his hand inside his coat pocket, plucking out a thin sheet of paper with several lines of writing on it – John guessed that this was the last note that Mr. Milner had left, the one that Sherlock had deemed prudent to remain concealed and secret until time was right. Clearly the time was now right, because he began to read;

" '_Missing, six children: Louisa Stacks; Adam McLachan; Darren Hayworth; Kayleigh Lansford; Samantha Cartairs; Benjamin McPherson. Taken away, for some purpose – think trafficking/ possibly some other medical purpose – sorry that I haven't been able to be more clear about these events. I had to gather enough evidence, but seemingly attracted attention in doing so. Been leaving messages with Corrina, hopefully this won't be in vain. Abigail Riggans and Peter Read, these two have been the correspondents and are culpable for all actions in connection with the missing children. I hope this is found – someone needed to know, regardless of the cost. Terri.'." _There was a long silence once Sherlock had finished reading the note – Lestrade seemed to be ogling just as much as the two cuffed prisoners were. "I have here-" Yet again Sherlock's hand delved into the recesses of his coat pocket. "Two passports, and two plane ticket confirmation slips – both registered under different names." The items that Sherlock had taken from Mr. Read's case suddenly became obvious as he laid out the two false, but very convincing passports, complete with photographs and different names – they were caught. "They were intending to leave tonight; their plane booking slips show us that their destination was America. If they hadn't been reprimanded today then they would have made it away, completely unsuspected, and set up new lives in the United States, I have no question about that." Sherlock closed the passports with the booking slips folded into them and held them out, rather carelessly, for Lestrade to take to use for evidence within the case. "I think, Inspector Lestrade, you may now remove these two cretins to a place of secure safety now that you have heard the story of what happened with no overriding objections from their lips." With one flick of the end of his coat, Sherlock had withdrawn from the conference room in that majestic air he commanded after he had just proved himself right. As Lestrade and John caught up with Sherlock's movements, both were slightly surprised to see him walking straight towards Mr. Ewans' office. Just behind Sherlock at the door way John heard Sherlock say:

"The investigation is now completed – the relevant people will be informed, and be assured that there is no way you can be held accountable for not detecting Miss. Riggans and Mr. Read. Their planning was almost of infinite detail, ahd it not been for the advances in technology and the carelessness of their co-conspirators, then I doubt that they would have ever been found out… you'll need to fill three positions within the department now, so I'm sure your excitement won't be over just yet…"

Sherlock had ensconced himself in his armchair back in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street; his head rested against the low back, his legs stretched out in front of him, and each arm dangling over the arms of his chair. John noted the presence of the nicotine patch plastered to the inside of Sherlock's left arm and tried to think for a few seconds what there possibly was left in this case for Sherlock to consider, but busied himself in his usual activity of making a cup of tea for both himself and Sherlock. As he set down a full mug of tea beside Sherlock's armchair,. Sherlock's head jerked up suddenly;

"That was a fairly interesting case, wasn't it John?" He murmured, raising the mug of tea to his lips.

" '_Fairly interesting'_?" John questioned incredulously and shaking his head very slightly. How could Sherlock consider a case that had taken him nearly two days with no sleep to complete _"fairly interesting"…_? "Explain to me…" John commanded firmly, Sherlock cocked his head to one side, his eyebrow raised. "Explain how you knew about Mr. Milner having intercepted the messages between Miss. Riggans and Mr. Read?" Sherlock sat up more erectly in his chair, more than eager to discourse about the finer aspects of the case.

"It wasn't a very difficult leap to draw from some of the facts we had been given. You yourself pointed out the fact that Mr. Milner wore hearing aids, and _cochlear implants_ also; that was the first fact that was of importance. Miss. Drylie then made a comment that Mr. Milner had spoken about 'interference' in regards to the implants while they had been at university; you also know that I then made an assumption about Mr. Milner having sent her messages, and coded messages at that. When I had those messages it wasn't difficult to decode them, and after decoding a few of them successfully it became clear what they were. I had read an article somewhere, that people with cochlear implants sometimes had problems with all the technology that has become a vital part of our lives… It wasn't too complex to draw the conclusion that Mr. Milner's cochlear implants were picking up the binary transmissions that were close to him. The decoded messages were clear in themselves… so there the conclusion was formulated for me." Sherlock recounted, and John saw the links that Sherlock had painted out.

"Ah, I see…" John nodded, "So it all came down to the messages and breaking the code – and then the rest became clear."

"Exactly." Sherlock nodded, then sighed heavily. "Something to add to the blog, hmmm?" He hummed, letting his head fall back onto the back of his armchair once more; John saw the fingers of his left hand tapping on the arm of the chair as though they were playing a violin. There was a very long silence as John drunk his tea and Sherlock delved into deep thought, it was many minutes later when Sherlock broke the resounding silence: "Ah John… What am I going to do now?"

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><p><strong>AN: And here I come to the end of the story... which is a real shame as I've enjoyed writing it so much! I hope if you've read this far that you've enjoyed it- and I would object to a review from you letting me know what you thought, good or bad! :)**


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